Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth
by feliciacraft
Summary: SunnyD Awards nominated! A Season 6 rewrite from Buffy's death (a continuation of my Season 5 trilogy), this story will continue on to a Buffy who "comes back wrong" in a different way. After an AU relationship with Spike in Season 5, she'll come back to face different challenges, and eventually learn to love and fight again with a vampire lover by her side. Features full ensemble.
1. All My Days Are Trances

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 1. All My Days Are Trances**

 _And all my days are trances,  
And all my nightly dreams  
Are where thy grey eye glances,  
And where thy footstep gleams -  
In what ethereal dances,  
By what eternal streams._

 _From "To One In Paradise", by Edgar Allan Poe_

* * *

Spike came to with a full-body shudder and immediately regretted his state of consciousness. Vampire physiology rendered him impervious to the elements, true, but some things still chilled him to the bone. Looking about to try to get his bearings, he realized he was fully clothed, a right mess sliding off of his favorite armchair, the one perfectly angled to watch both the telly and the front door. Judging by the soft light filtering through the window, it must've been close to sunset.

He tried to suss out what had happened. Mind a blank. Tried to get vertical. Legs wouldn't cooperate. Felt the broken ribs, the punctured lung, and the busted knee then, among other souvenirs, courtesy of...Glory's tower. _Oh, sodding buggering bleeding FUCK!_ A deluge of memories of the final battle poured forth from behind a broken dam, and the impact, unbraced, left him gasping for air, as if a man drowning. _Oh, Buffy…_ He had planned to go down fighting, lay down his unlife for _her_ , for little sis, except when had any of his plans gone any way but bollixed all to hell? _Couldn't even dust right. And now-now, she's- Buffy's-_

He shook his head in an attempt to unhook himself from that thought. _Not going there; not yet._ How long had he been out? He clearly hadn't been feeding, or the mending pain would've long jolted him awake. Candles long gone out. Crypt smelled unlived in, undisturbed. Craning his neck, he noticed that the door had not been latched from the inside. _Huh. Did the Watcher man and Harris boy bring…?_

 _Should've been touched, the Slayerettes taking care of Old Spike,_ he thought, with just a hint of bitterness. Would've too, had there been anything left where his heart should be. _Oh, Buffy…_ No circulation system to his name, yet he still suffered headaches-ain't that a laugh. This one, by the pounding of it, was express delivery straight from hell.

He forced a leaden hand up to soothe his throbbing head and paused, when he caught, from his fingers, a whiff of _her_ , of their combined spendings, from... _before_. Gave that knife lodged right in his heart another turn. He was already Love's bitch, did the Powers That Be really have to make him their punching bag, too? His eyes stung then, full of tears for her, for them, for the dream that almost was but would never be again and the nightmare of his reality. He had finally had her, hadn't he, held her in his arms, in her bed, pliant and satisfied and so, so sweet. Smiles radiant and body overheated and heart hammering and passion burning-

But no more. How he was going to endure the rest of eternity in the darkness, after such a brief yet dazzling encounter with sunlight, he had no idea. His inner William chose that moment to rear his timid Victorian head and wax poetic over the impossible romanticism of it all and quote Tennyson- _Tennyson, that wankstain!_ -only to be shoved back where he belonged. Anyone who thought it _better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all_ did not truly love, not the way Spike did. And was a simpering pillock, a sodding poncy poof, a rat-arsed berk. He rattled off a few other choice words in English and for good measure, piled on more curses from a half dozen demon languages.

 _Oh, Buffy…_ He kicked the coffee table, hard, in a bout of impotent rage, and set off a cacophony of bottles clashing to the crypt floor. He surveyed the damage: must've been a dozen JD bottles there, another piece of a clue to his lost time. A closer look revealed a half-full bottle. He plucked it out of obscurity and tipped the bottle over his eager mouth.

* * *

Willow gently pulled Dawn's bedroom door closed behind her and tiptoed down the stairs to join an anxious Tara on the sofa.

"How is she?"

"Finally asleep. Your valerian and passion flower tea did the trick. Well," Willow amended in a small voice, "I _may_ have magicked it to boost its potency."

Tara reached for Willow's fidgeting hands and covered them with her own. "She's going through a rough patch. Picking out a burial outfit for Buffy was too much for her, but therapeutic in its own way. The crying was a form of release. Magic shouldn't be necessary. Just give her time."

At Tara's touch, Willow's tense frame visibly relaxed. She laid her head on her girlfriend's shoulder. "But it's been a week, Tara. What if she doesn't get better? What if the nightmares never go away? What if she still wouldn't leave her room?"

Tara smiled and put an arm around her. It was just like her Willow to want everyone happy. "Well, at least she's no longer just staring into space, which is a definite improvement. My mom always said to trust in the healing power of Mother Earth. Gaia provides us with herbs like valerian, passion flower, and chamomile to ease anxiety, calm nerves, promote relaxation, and enhance the body's innate capacity for self-preservation. It's more reliable than magic and always benign, because its source of power comes from Nature. Other than that, we'll love her and be there for her."

"But what if-"

"Shhh. Let's not borrow trouble." She started gently rocking Willow, like a mother rocking a child in distress. "It took me a long time to stop crying every day after my mom passed away. And I didn't have to deal with guilt. Dawn needs to grieve and come to terms with her emotions, and we need to let her."

Feeling Willow's nod on her shoulder, she turned to her. With her eyes closed, Willow almost looked peaceful. But Tara needed to ask, because she knew, from experience, how much bottling up emotions hurt in the long run, how crucial it was to accept grief, live it, share it, and let it go. Willow was grieving clearer than if there were a neon sign declaring it above her head, but she was rejecting and hiding from it.

"And how are you holding up?" Voice low and calming, Tara watched her girlfriend for a reaction.

"Fine, I guess." Off of Tara's arched eyebrow, she reconsidered, turning to face her. "Not _fine_ fine, obviously, but okay, given...everything. It's just that-" she sighed, then shook her head. "Forget it."

Tara pushed Willow's hair out of her face to look into her eyes. "Hey, it's okay if you're not ready to share. When you are, I want you to know that I'm here for you. Just to listen."

Willow bit her lower lip. "Okay. Do you ever think that if we were more powerful or-or knew the right spells, that maybe we could've saved Buffy?"

 _Ah, survivor's guilt._ Tara gave her girlfriend a long look. Willow had said "we", but Tara knew she blamed only herself.

"More powerful...like an army? There was one, the Knights of Byzantium. They crumbled away in the presence of Glory, like clay figures in the rain. Or more spells, like those used by the monks?" She sent a glance in the direction of Dawn's door. "They magicked millennia-old trans-dimensional energy into a flesh-and-blood human, with memories to match. That's unheard of, Willow, but even they couldn't hold off Glory."

Willow looked unconvinced, so Tara continued, trying hard to temper the wavering of her own voice, "Buffy was the first, the only one to defeat Glory. In the end, it wasn't muscle or magic that counted-it was love." Her voice was breaking, but she pushed on, undeterred. "It was Buffy's love for Dawn, for this world, and for all the little anonymous people living in it."

Willow had started to sniffle and wipe at her eyes. She couldn't look up, couldn't face the sadness in Tara's eyes, so like her own.

"It was love for people like you and me, Willow, who could not have done what she did. Who can only remember, and live, and love."

Willow's head jerked up at that. The last word was barely a whisper, but like a ray of sunshine piercing through fog, it penetrated through Willow's gloom. "And love," she parroted, leaning into Tara's hand, which had reached up to wipe away her tears, and stayed to cup her face. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the warmth of Tara's hand, but it was not enough, not nearly. So she threw herself into Tara's waiting embrace, wrapping her arms around Tara's waist like a little kid. She let her body go slack and her tears fall unchecked, the wetness seeping into Tara's shirt to tickle her skin underneath.

Holding up Willow, Tara's own heart was breaking, the feeling painfully familiar. Death could never be anything but devastating, and they'd all seen so much of it on the Hellmouth. How much more could they take?

* * *

Giles let the pen slip out of his hand onto the notebook below and pinched the bridge of his nose. Detailing the death of his Slayer was undoubtedly the toughest part of his duty as a Watcher. That her passing should be unmourned by the world at large, which she died to preserve, seemed the worst injustice of it all.

For nearly five years he had watched over Buffy, guided her in her sacred duty, honed her fighting techniques to the edge of her innate ability, stood by her through vampires, demons, a hell god, ex-boyfriends, a vampire ex-boyfriend turned soulless killer, a secret branch of the American military that experimented on demons, annual apocalypses and _good Lord, American high school_. He had even killed a human for her, because she couldn't. And throughout it all-at first without realizing it-he had loved her and tried to protect her like the father she didn't have, the father she desperately needed.

In turn, she had challenged his and the Council's authority from the beginning, pushed the boundary on recorded vampire lore and demonology, surpassed his highest expectation in serving the mission while living life to the fullest, and even managed to survive an earlier death to split the Slayer line. Not to mention her final act of self-sacrifice to save a dimensional Key of a sister, who had been nothing more than green energy a year ago. Perhaps most unusual of all, absolutely unprecedented, she had had not one, but two master vampires fall in love with her and turn to the Light, including a notorious unsouled vampire, William the Bloody, aka Spike.

On that thought Giles reached for the bottle of Glenfiddich in the bottom drawer and poured himself two fingers' worth. As a Watcher, this was the life he had chosen, since taking an oath to protect the world. His steel-forged courage in the face of the ever-present threat of death did not, however, offer him protection from heartache. The past week had been proof enough. Grief-stricken, he had, as Xander accused of him, "lost his cool" and come undone in the company of Buffy's friends. He might've been uncharacteristically cold and uncaring towards Dawn as well, openly resenting her, perhaps undeservedly, for Buffy's death.

No doubt his subsequent absence at 1630 Revello Drive had been conspicuous, but he simply could not muster the requisite strength and courage to confront the painful reality of Buffy's death. To enter her house now, without her. That Dawn, Buffy's sister and the reason she gave her life, was in need of care and a guardian, he chose to ignore for the moment as well. He rather resented having to be the adult in Buffy's inner circle and with all the responsibilities already heaped upon him, the one everybody expected to pick up the pieces. Every. Single. Time.

Neither had he been by the Magic Box, the hat of enterprising proprietor never having particularly fit him, and seemed exceedingly ludicrous at the moment. Taking a long sip of his drink, he knew he needed not worry, for Anya would be there to handle the store front. And _because_ Anya would be there, he had no wish to present himself there as well. They were all witnesses to that unbearable crime, the one that ripped Buffy from her young life. In his mind, that made all of them accessories to murder, co-conspirators in her death. He simply did not know how to face any of them. Had death always hit him this hard? He thought back to the beginning of his career, of his stint as Ripper, those days marred with loss but always resilient. He was getting too old for this. He needed a caretaker, not _be_ one. He needed healing. He needed time.

 _There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet_

 _Good Lord,_ he thought, _T.S. bloody Eliot. I_ am _getting old._

In his head he replayed the obligatory phone call he had placed to the Council shortly after Buffy's demise, mulled it over. To have to relive the worst day of his life to an unsympathetic Quentin Travers through the distortion of five thousand miles of telephone wires, and the fatigue of eight hours of time difference and zero hours of sleep, only to be met with the curt request for his post-mortem report on their last Slayer, stat, unleashed a fury in Giles he didn't know he still had, so long after his Ripper days.

"Her name," he had said through gritted teeth, "was Buffy Summers. The Slayer title lives on. For Heaven's sake, Quentin, show a little respect! A girl just gave her life so that you and I and six billion oblivious people may live!"

"Precisely," came the even-toned reply, and Giles thought he could detect a trace of boredom within, as if Travers were a schoolmaster repeating a well-rehearsed speech, and him a particularly dimwitted pupil. "Miss Summers did her _duty_. Her bravery is an example to us all. But pray tell, _Rupert,_ how are you carrying out _yours_ these days?"

Giles was too busy counting off spells of a non-friendly nature that very moment, with that particular Council Director being his imaginary favored target, to come up with a retort.

Travers, satisfied that he had restored the proper stoicism to their conference call with a well-applied measure of his stiff upper lip, continued with a subject of _his_ interest, "I wonder, with the Slayer line split, whether a new Slayer will be called? Or will that continuation fall to Miss Lehane?"

Finding the suggestion of Faith's death, so close to Buffy's own, nauseatingly distasteful, Giles mumbled a safe wait-and-see-approach as his reply, and ended the phone call with the excuse of having last-minute details of Buffy's funeral to arrange.

"That insufferable, arrogant git!" Trying to shake off the memory of Travers's smug voice, he took another draft from his glass, and returned to his Watcher's Diary, which, unfortunately, required him to consider the other loose end of his tenure in Sunnydale: Spike. That he had reformed, Buffy had been adamant. Giles was no fool. Well-trained in reading people and especially good at reading his Slayer, he could tell when her attitude towards Spike had taken a 180-degree turn. There was respect for the strength and prowess of a fellow warrior, admiration for his torture-tested loyalty, and trust-the kind with absolute conviction, wagered in life and death. There were times when he suspected that Buffy was beginning to reciprocate Spike's feelings, consequences be damned. They paired splendidly in fighting, sought each other out in a group setting, either intentionally or subconsciously, and Council teaching or not, there was something poetic, in a yin-yang balance kind of way, about an alliance between the Slayer and the Slayer of Slayers.

And what had they talked about during that brief reprieve on the Winnebago, just before the knights' attack brought both of them rushing out from the back bedroom to jump into the fray? Not to mention, at the final battle, when they had returned from weapon retrieval at Buffy's house, the way they looked at each other...

Well, it was all moot now. Buffy was gone. That ended that, thank God. But it would be immensely irresponsible of him to leave Sunnydale without getting a clear picture of Spike's intentions and plans going forward. Giles downed the rest of his drink. Bollocks. He was going to have to pay the chipped vampire a visit.

* * *

"Then I said, 'You call this satin, but you know as well as me that this dress is made of second grade synthetic polyester and not premium Chinese silk, which makes the price you charge highway robbery-' Xander Harris, have you heard a word I said?"

"What?" Caught, Xander's mind raced to come up with a reply that proved his attentiveness. "Synthetic silk? That's uh, what exactly is synthetic silk?"

Anya huffed. Men. Couldn't even rely on them for good dinner conversation. How were you supposed to put up with one for life without either calling on a vengeance demon for backup or turning him into a troll yourself? It had done wonders for her career, sure, but now that she was newly human, it was hardly all puppies and sunshine.

"Never mind that." She stabbed a pearl potato on her plate and waved her fork in Xander's face. "You're miles away. How could you not be emotionally invested in our wedding, and by extension, my wedding dress contestant number five?"

"I'm invested. I'm the Warren Buffett-level investor. I'm-" Having just processed everything, he puzzled over her last sentence. "You have contestants for your wedding dress?"

"Sure!" she beamed, now that Xander was finally with the program. "Reality game shows are the new, hot American thing. Nowadays, it's almost as American as consumerism. And I thought, why not do my patriotic part and combine the two? So I started running a competitive game show for the best wedding dress in my head. Simon Cowell is a judge. He never means to be rude, but he's ruthlessly blunt and uncompromising." She sighed longingly, "I owe him so much."

"An…" Xander rubbed his temples. He didn't want an argument. The funeral was in two days. He had had a tough day on the job, foregoing his hour of lunch break in an effort to make schedule, and still landed himself on the manager's shit list for requesting time off in the pre-summer construction crunch. In contrast, what occupied the thoughts of his girlfriend-scratch that, fiancée-seemed neither appropriate nor consequential, given... _everything_.

Not known for subtlety, he had no idea what to say to not hurt her feelings. He nudged a pearl potato to the side of his plate only to watch it roll back. The slice of steak he just swallowed-medium rare, cooked to perfection, just the way he liked-somehow did not go down easy. Well, at any rate, _something_ was lodged in his throat. He had no idea how to placate Anya, so he aimed for straightforward. "It seems hardly the time to be fussing over wedding details. Buffy's funeral-"

"Buffy's funeral, Buffy's funeral...is that the only thing you care about? She's gone now, and still manages to pull your strings from beyond the grave!" She pushed her plate back and pouted all the way to the sofa, where she threw herself down, crossing her arms and legs in a battle stance.

 _Shit list? Meet doghouse._ Xander wanted to go to her, appease her with a mumbled apology followed by a heartfelt kiss, and engage her with a question about the tablecloth or centerpiece for the wedding reception. He didn't give a damn about such things, but she did, and that was all that mattered. In turn, Anya would relent, and melt in his arms. She was quick to anger; but her temper, like showers in April, never lasted, and she wasn't one to hold grudges. He loved that about her.

She seemed to take his silence as a sign of tacit agreement. Her temper flared. "And I spent two hours cooking your favorite meal. Would it have killed you to pay me a compliment? _'Way to a man's heart is through his stomach'_ my ass."

"Where are you finding these 1950s housewives to take relationship advice from?" He knew it was the wrong thing to say before the words left his mouth, but he couldn't stop himself. It was like watching a trainwreck about to happen in an out-of-body experience. He briefly considered if such a thing had happened in Sunnydale, literally.

That did it. Anya shot up and came at him so fast he felt the rush of hot air before he saw her towering over his slouched form. "At least I'm trying!" her voice was breaking. _Not good._ "Being human is _hard!_ I'm learning, for you. For us." She frantically gestured the space between them. "The least you could do is to not mock me!"

He sprang into action then, and gathered her quaking body into his arms. "I'm sorry, An. I'm an idiot. Open mouth, insert foot-that's me." He pulled back to cradle her face between his palms, wiping at the streams of tears with his rough fingers. "Please don't cry."

Anya dabbed her eyes with a tissue, but the tears wouldn't let up. "I get it that you're grieving for Buffy. I am, too. She was a sweet girl." She hiccuped, her sobs easing as her fury turned to sorrow. She was genuinely upset, but seemed to draw strength from it. "But it just reminds me that human lifespan is so short! We need to live each day, and _enjoy_ it, as if it was our last!"

They stood there for a long time, motionless except for an errant sob that escaped from Anya every once in a while, clutching each other tight, like two people drowning in a river of sadness. Silently, Xander blinked away what felt suspiciously like tears. He loved Anya, didn't deserve her, and wanted to devote his life to her happiness. But Buffy's passing had set up house in that dark corner of his mind, and he wondered if he'd ever be happy again.

~ To Be Continued... ~

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

1\. Alfred Lord Tennyson, if you're unfamiliar, was one of the greatest English poets ever, and remains among the most popular to this day. Chances are, you recognized the quote in the story even before the attribution. A representative Victorian poet with a Romantic inclination, he would likely have been one of William's favorite poets.

2\. T. S. Eliot is a favorite of mine. A "learned man," as Giles would appreciate, he studied philosophy, classics, and languages, among them Latin, Greek and French. His poetry, though absolutely brilliant with words, can be a bit heavy, bordering on esoteric, with a preoccupation for religious themes, such as sin and free will, damnation and salvation-the same religious themes explored by BtVs, despite Joss being an atheist. An accessible overture into his poetry is "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."


	2. Not in Old Heroic Traces

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 2. Not in Old Heroic Traces**

 _I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,  
And not in paths of high morality,  
And not among the half-distinguished faces,  
The clouded forms of long-past history._

 _I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:  
It vexes me to choose another guide:  
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;  
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side._

 _What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?  
More glory and more grief than I can tell:  
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling  
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell._

 _\- From "Stanzas", by Emily Brontë_

* * *

When he ran out of liquor in his crypt, even depleting his backup stash and his impending-apocalypse stash, a reasonable vampire might've said, "Enough is enough," and moved onto the next stage of grief that did not involve attempts at alcohol poisoning. Spike, who ranked "reasonable" much like he did "mediocrity"-the most despicable condition in life and unlife-beat on heedlessly, back set deliberately against reason. Having never done anything by halfsies, he simply switched the drinking to Willy's, his one-man pity party in tow.

"You're not welcome here!" the snitch shrieked, right before bolting out the back door. Might've had something to do with the look of murder in Spike's eyes, not to mention past history. No blood and no sleep except for bouts of passing out cold with nothing for company but bottles of Jack Daniels for how many days now. He smelled bad and looked worse-like a walking skeleton incorrectly assembled and painted by a Jackson Pollock-wanna-be _in blood_.

He helped himself to a top-shelf bottle of scotch, trusting his nose and not bothering to read the label, and proceeded to take an extended swig, foregoing the poncy rocks glass altogether. With the good part of a bottle lubricating his bones, he shook his shoulders loose and cracked his neck, surveying the bar for a worthy opponent or six to pound into the ground. Couldn't save anybody on a promise, but in maiming and killing, he always hit the mark, even three sheets to the wind. Which, given his vamp constitution, took real commitment.

A trio of Fyarl demon too big for the rear booth they occupied caught his eye. Curiously, the demons were, in turn, swirling, sniffing, and sipping from glasses of red wine, only to spit it back out in a lethal, mucusy projection. Fyarls doing wine tasting? Now he'd seen everything.

"Hey, ugly!" Spike shouted in his best Fyarl, his words just slurred enough to approximate the guttural sounds the language called for. The beasts' heads swiveled to him in a synchronized fashion, confusion quickly giving way to fury.

"Yeah, you lot! You poncy, nancy wankers and-oh, a _lady_ Fyarl! Well, you miserable troll-smelling tart! You empty-headed animal food trough wipers! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!" [1]

That achieved the desired effect. A wine glass flew past Spike's head accompanied by a growl, just before the head-honcho Fyarl, flanked by his buddies, ran at him, full speed. In the few seconds before impact, his head cocked back, Spike bounced on the balls of his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Bring it on!"

* * *

It was silly, really, sneaking around in her own house. But Dawn was good at it, the sneaking around, like a special agent on a recon mission. Actually, it was more like a scared kid running for her security blanket, but the other thing sounded cooler in her head. Plus she was tired of pretending to be better for Willow and Tara's sake. Everyone said it was not her fault, that she must not blame herself. But she knew better. _Duh._ Also, not _everyone_ , because _everyone_ hadn't been by the house since Buffy died; just Willow and Tara. _Did they, like, move in or something? Weird. Weird but good. For the most part._ She definitely did not want to be alone in this big house all by herself right now.

Truth be told, Dawn was slightly apprehensive of the witches. She didn't trust the knowing looks they shared when they thought she wasn't looking, the awkward prodding with the twenty questions to make sure she was OK (and she was decidedly NOT OK, and not gonna be, never ever). She didn't trust the spells that they (Willow more than Tara) secretly muttered under their breaths, and the medicine-y herbal tea they kept making her drink before bed. She also didn't trust their sunny disposition with the forced cheerfulness, and the sisterly affection so close to her real sister's passing that it felt as fake as the Bot, a betrayal to Buffy's memory.

She had hoped to dream of Buffy- _People do, right, don't they, after someone's...gone?_ -especially since she thought little else during the day. Consumed by guilt and grief and fear in her waking hours, she found it blatantly suspicious that her nights since Glory's tower had been uniformly calm and dream-free. Not a single nightmare. Not even cryptic, nonsensical, or ordinary dreams. _Shyeah. Had to be magic._

She wished someone else would come by. It was so quiet in the last week. She hadn't seen Giles or Xander or Anya or even Spike since Glory's tower. She'd heard phone calls, whispers in the early mornings and late nights, as if she didn't know they were discussing _her_ -but still. Were they avoiding her on purpose?

Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised, because they were ever only Buffy's Watcher, Buffy's friends, and Buffy's not-a-boyfriend. She was just the dumb little sister, the hanger-on that they had to put up with to be near Buffy. Because Buffy was cool, Buffy kicked ass, and Buffy always saved the day. But beyond that, Buffy was her security blanket, her safety net, her family. It was only as her little sister that she had knew any of them. Only because of Buffy had she been made real.

With that thought, she crept into Buffy's room and silently locked the door behind her.

There had been one tense moment early on, when Dawn had marched into the kitchen one morning with purpose. Catching the witches flirting under the pretense of making pancakes, she threw the announcement in their faces that Buffy's room was not to be touched under any circumstance. The "or else" part was unsaid but seemed to have knocked Willow back like an elephant that had stormed the room.

Dawn's one triumphant moment as an authority figure with one defiant command, came as rather a shock to Willow, who had always viewed Dawn as a helpless-therefore easily commandeered-little kid. The youngster had no intention to challenge Willow's freshly-installed status, in light of her sister's passing, as the new boss. Neither did she bother, however, to consider just how her one careless teenage act of rebellion might be interpreted by an easily bruised ego unfamiliar with the tactics of a bratty younger sibling; how hostile her territorial claim might seem to the pair of her late sister's friends who, out of concern for her, borrowed shelter under her roof.

She meant Willow no harm, really really. Okay, she might've, just for a teeny tiny bit, relished watching the _Not-a-Sister_ rendered speechless and clearly uncomfortable in the skirmish. But that was only because lately the witch seemed to always have a ton to say to her, and none of which what she wanted to hear.

As if unsure of her own reaction, Willow had kept trying to catch Tara's eye, much to Dawn's satisfaction. But the latter readily agreed to Dawn's request without fuss, and switched without a second thought onto an inquiry regarding how many pancakes Dawn would like for breakfast.

At any rate, everything about the room remained the same: Buffy's clothes spilt out of her closet. Buffy's cosmetics littered the top of her dresser. Buffy's weapons chest (the one with her favorite weapons she didn't like storing, out of reach, in the living room chest) poked out from under the bed. Buffy's stuffed animals stood to attention in a row, next to Buffy's favorite photos, including one featuring the two sisters in identical poses that Dawn had always thought cheesy beyond all get-out.

She grabbed Mr. Gordo and slipped into Buffy's bed, burrowing deeper under the covers to fend off the shudders. When she closed her eyes, she imagined that her sister was still there. In fact, they had just stayed up too late chatting and hanging out in her room, instant slumber party-style, using pillows to muffle their outbursts of laughter so as not to make Mom any wiser. As Dawn had gotten drowsier and drowsier and still stubbornly rejected going to bed, Buffy gently scooted her down the bed and tucked her in beside herself.

If she kept her eyes very tightly closed and refused to acknowledge the tears that were trickling down her face now to land on Buffy's pillow below with a barely audible "tap," "tap," "tap," she could imagine her sister falling asleep next to her under the same blanket. They would wake up tomorrow morning to Mom's yummy breakfast: eggs sunnyside up in a smiley face like Dawn always liked and Buffy always pretended she was too old for, crunchy toast coated in melted butter, and a tall glass of juice-two parts orange, one part grapefruit-for Buffy, milk for Dawn. If she could just hold on to those thoughts as she drifted towards sleep, she thought, then it wouldn't matter if she had no dreams of Buffy, no dreams at all. She was next to her, where she belonged, safe and soundly asleep, and everything was going to be all right.

* * *

"I think Dawn has been sneaking into Buffy's room to sleep again," Willow tattled to Giles on speakerphone. Tara frowned at the hint of recrimination in Willow's voice. They were there as her family, not her prison guards. Why did Willow's word choice sound so...accusatory?

There was a pause, then came back Giles' weary reply, "Why do you suppose she feels the need to _sneak_ into Buffy's room, as opposed to doing so in the open?"

That was clearly not the response Willow had expected. "Well, obviously, she's grieving in a not-entirely-healthy way, and-"

"Willow, my dear, in all of my years, I have yet to find a way to grieve that is entirely healthy."

Willow sulked. It almost sounded as if Giles was annoyed with her, and all she'd ever done was care. If she gave off the impression of encroaching upon the teen's privacy by monitoring her activities in her own house, using a truth or tracking spell here and there, it was done purely out of concern for Dawn. For her own protection. For her own good. She was trying so hard to stand in for the sister Dawn lost, out of love for the grieving teen. It wasn't anything serious or sinister. Her hard effort wouldn't have been necessary if Dawn just shared with her willingly.

Getting nothing but silence, Giles continued, "She has suffered unimaginable losses at a difficult age, losing her only family-her mother and her sister-within months of each other. She has the unfortunate fate to have witnessed, in the most traumatic and bizarre way only possible on the Hellmouth, said sister sacrifice herself in order to save her. This, within the same year she discovered that she originated from a mystical energy acting as a dimensional Key, and had been made human only recently, by a secret order of monks. Given the plethora of alarming behaviors you have _not_ mentioned in association with Dawn, which would be easily conceivable under these trying circumstances, I rather think that she is adjusting remarkably well, and is resilient beyond her years. Would you...agree?"

Willow stared at the telephone handset dumbly. How did Giles end up lecturing her about Dawn when _she_ was the one taking care of her, baking fun-time cookies and renting bonding movies and suggesting retail therapy trips to the mall? All while the Slayer-less Watcher watched...what, exactly?

"Y-yes, Mr. Giles. Dawn...is adjusting. I think she just needs more time." Tara filled the silence, and nudged Willow to say something. Willow's lips parted, but no sound came out.

"And time she shall have, Tara." A mirthless chuckle. "Some days I rather think time is all we have." With that, the conversation came to an end.

Willow whirled on her girlfriend. " _I_ don't think Dawn is doing all that well. Otherwise we wouldn't need to be here, taking care of her. I could've used a little backup in front of Giles, Tara."

"Mr. Giles isn't wrong, Willow. I think we may have been pushing her too hard"-Tara considered her words carefully-"with the well-meaning distraction strategy."

"Well-meaning…?" Willow parroted, her mind going a mile a minute. Tara couldn't be saying what she thought she was saying, right? "Well-meaning" sounded like the kind of thing you said when things weren't working out, as in, _Oh well, at least she meant well._ But it _was_ working. She was doing a great job being in charge, and of course, taking care of Dawn.

"But it is working! She hardly cries anymore, and she no longer shuts herself in her room all day."

 _Except,_ Tara thought, _she's hiding her tears while she's hiding from us in Buffy's room._ But Willow didn't need a direct confrontation; she needed understanding and love. She was mourning her best friend, and had sought to cope by playing the mother hen to Dawn's reluctant baby chick, hiding her own pain behind an otherwise irrational need to see the teen's previous liveliness restored lickety-split. Much like snapping your magic fingers together or casting a spell.

Tara smiled kindly, the image of an indulgent mother humoring a kid having a temper tantrum. "We can't have it both ways, Will. Either she's not doing well and needs more help than we're qualified to provide, or this arrangement is working and she just needs us to trust her to be able to deal in her own time."

"Besides," she added, seeing that Willow had absentmindedly started to chew on a strand of hair, "she's only sixteen. They're unpredictable at that age under the best circumstances. Remember?" She bumped shoulders with her girlfriend with a teasing raise of an eyebrow. "It wasn't so long ago."

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Willow reached for her girlfriend's hand, so warm in her lap. "How come you are so wise, with the unflustered eloquence?"

 _That_ made Tara blush and her heart fluster. She bought herself a few seconds by covering their joined hands with her free hand. "Oh, Willow. If I'm wise, it's because you lend weight to my opinions. If I'm eloquent, it's because you gave me a voice."

At that, all the morning's unpleasantness with Giles melted away from Willow's mind.

* * *

No eyes but clarity of vision, casting the now backward and onward-

No sound but lifted the belljar of silence, of words held back, of thoughts unframed-

No form but cradled in warmth, wrapped in love and immersed in peace-

If there is a body, there's no more vigor to sustain, no more injuries to bear, no more time-laden doom of wear-and-tear to defend, no more frailties that shackle and bind-

If there is reason, there's no reason to be, no rousing bugle or cries of battle, no instruments of destruction to wield and inflict, no nectar of victory to soothe the sorest defeat-

No more power, no more strength, no more Calling, no more, no more-

There is much to gain in the loss, no loss at all; its burden a relief, a Gift now for another, any other-

Is there...an I? A _Buffy_?

My senses stretch to fill all time and space, looking for an edge to caress-

Yet infinite is my release-

Infinite is my release.

* * *

Anya tossed the calculator carelessly back into the drawer and bumped it shut with an economic swing of her hips. She had sought to cheer herself up from the lull in the Magic Box by going over last month's accounting and by losing herself in the eternal elegance of arithmetics. The tradition of bookkeeping was just gaining popularity among merchants when she was a child, so long ago, using Greek numerals that took up a lot of parchment and ink that blackened the fleshy part of her hand when she brushed against it too soon. The simple, dependable rules of addition and subtraction had fascinated her then, in a harsh life where survival was, at best, uncertain; they always infused her with nostalgia now, in a world so different yet no less belligerent.

Presently they failed her, though through no fault of their own. Last month was a wash at best, what with all the store closures she'd had to endure while they alternatively fled from then pursued Glory. The sum from the receipts were so meager, she hadn't needed the calculator, and that was before carrying forward the amortized charges from the last round of repairs. Why the battleground had had to be _her_ store she could not understand. Well, it wasn't her store yet, but it was only a matter of time, right? Giles would be summoned by the Watchers Council and reassigned any day now.

Her forehead creased with thoughts of the future. Everyone around her avoided discussions of the days ahead like the plague, as if wallowing in the past would stop the eternal march of time, as if living in denial would bring Buffy back. Her death was sad, no doubt about it, but it was a good death, a warrior's death.

The vengeance demon in her understood this. What hadn't she seen in her thousand-plus-year tenure? Kingdoms crumbled. Dynasties fell away. People died all the time, some for noble causes, some for no good reason at all. Some, quite a few, died at her hands, but only because they deserved it-she had a code, after all. She might've started a war or two, inadvertently, of course. She had survived the actual plague, twice. She had borne witness to plenty of death and destruction of human origin. It was the circle of life. Buffy had been called for the protection of this world, her Slayer's power but a loan and a mark of her sacred duty, until death. She fulfilled it with valor and determination. It had been a worthy, well-lived life.

So all this weeping and moping irked her. It was no way to honor a Slayer. They should be living their lives, not mourning her passing. Buffy understood that the sum of the collective values of ordinary lives exceeded that of an extraordinary hero. Like the penny drive Anya had done for the Sunnydale Humane Society, each penny so insignificant that sometimes even those not making a purchase would dig through their pockets and purses to donate one or five. Yet together, they added up to something meaningful. Such as warm and well-fed puppies.

There was no point in ruminating, brooding over could-haves and should-haves. That way lay vengeance, and now that she'd washed her hands clean of the whole business, she didn't want to end up on the wrong side of that exchange. Or see her friends end up there.

 _Friends._ Were they her friends now? She thought of Willow and Tara and Giles and Dawn. Of Willow's open hostility and Tara's shyness and Giles' reserved judgement and Dawn's self-absorbed teenage rebellion. They were Xander's friends, and since she and Xander were engaged to be married, by California law she'd own half of their allegiance, right? Turning human had meant losing her demon friends, with the exception of a few close to her heart, whom she'd known for centuries. Throwing her lot in with the Slayer had been an act of love and loyalty, more for Xander than anything or anyone else. But now, even those few gave her a wide berth, preferring to steer clear of her path. What did that leave her, exactly? And who was she these days?

Anya found being human much harder than extracting vengeance from humans. The rules of communication and social interactions Xander kept throwing at her, with abstract and slippery words like _tact_ and _finesse_ and _appropriateness_ , were more like rules of un-communication and un-interaction, because they invariably translated to _not_ saying things on her mind (such as praising Xander's sexual prowess to his friends) and _not_ doing things she thought were helpful (such as asking to assist shoppers to spend their money in the Magic Box). She was only making sure that her boyfriend felt appreciated and that her customers left happy. She couldn't see what was so wrong about either.

She swept aside thoughts of a confusing sort, and focused on planning ahead. That was something practical and tangible she could tackle. She was getting married! She couldn't help squealing with delight. There was so much to do, so much to decide, that it was absolutely exhilarating! Wedding planning is going to be one of the best things about being human; she just knew it.

And Giles leaving...would make her a sole proprietor, at least in practice. Giles might prefer to hold on to the partnership on paper-old Watcher-types always dragged their feet when it came to change-but she was okay with that. _Sole proprietor!_ She threw her head back in pride as she rolled the words off her tongue, savoring them. That was what she was, a businesswoman in charge. She liked the sound of that.

The bell rang and Anya looked up to see Giles shuffle through the front door, his face unreadable. Well, even more so than usual. Did he use a mirror to practice this look of vague disapproval mixed with mild concern? It seemed like it'd be a hard look to master.

"Look who decided to show up to work today!" Anya said, by way of greeting. Not that she couldn't handle the store on her own, but she had work ethics. She'd worked for over a thousand years, and expected partners to pull their weight.

Giles didn't react, taking away Anya's ammunition. "Yes…" Slowly, as if the thoughts were still forming, he said, "I wonder if I may-" he gestured for the backroom.

Anya snapped to attention and followed Giles to the backroom, trying hard to suppress a smile. _Sole proprietor! Sole proprietor!_ A chorus was going off in her head, which made the smile-suppressing difficult.

Giles waited until they were both seated, with the desk between them, before he offered, "Surely you will have guessed that I won't be remaining in Sunnydale long."

 _Bingo!_ Anya's eyes lit up. She had been waiting for this conversation. She was ready for this. She was going to nail it like the promotion it was, nail it with a decisive stab of a pin at just that vulnerable place, and watch it wriggle and writhe helplessly until it ceased struggling. She was born ready.

* * *

Xander nervously plucked a yellowing leaf off of the bouquet of red roses in his hands as he rounded a corner, the Magic Box's lit sign beckoning from a mere block away. The bouquet had looked beautiful, effortlessly arranged in the florist's vase, but now, cellophaned against his callused hands, it looked fragile and awkward. He didn't much like the thought of giving something that would die in just a few short days as a symbol of his love, but he knew Anya would perk up at freshly cut flowers.

Personally, he preferred potted plants, something sturdy and self-sustaining and whole, with roots and everything. He liked the idea of taking care of something that would thrive in return, especially on the Hellmouth. Sadly, he'd never been much of a gardener beyond supplying the hardware. A wooden planter or raised garden bed, now that was something he could sink his tools into. See, most people didn't realize, but the secret of a well-constructed multi-level raised garden bed was-

He cut that thought short and forced himself to rehearse, once more, the sort-of-a-speech he had prepared and practiced. Anya looked so hurt during dinner last night, when he had zoned out for just a second to fret about Buffy's funeral. Her accusation had not been groundless; Xander realized, holding the shaking form of his tearful fiancee in his arms, that he had been neglecting her, at least emotionally. Hence the flowers, bought and to be delivered in person with a heart-felt apology on his morning break. And that wasn't even his trump card: dinner reservation for two in a booth, at Ristorante Venezia at seven o'clock tonight. The town had been all abuzz with news of its hot grand opening, and to recommend it further, the _Sunnydale Herald_ had just reviewed it as the best Italian restaurant in town. Anya was going to be thrilled.

Although it had never occurred to Xander to walk away, he had to admit that being the Slayer's friend had been a full-time job. Whittling stakes, repairing furniture, planning strategies, diving into demon research, even jumping into the fights. During what he'd come to think of as apocalypse season on the Hellmouth-late spring to early summer, every year-it'd turn into a 24/7 gig. He had no time for outside friends or other hobbies. Consequently, he had no outside friends or other hobbies. He wouldn't even have time to date, if he hadn't brought Anya into the Scooby gang.

That was the good and the bad. Outside work, he and Anya were always together, sure, but it was never about them. Buffy, whenever she was around, was always the center of gravity, pulling everyone else off orbit to rotate around her instead. As for the emotional side…cowabunga! Always heavy, full-forced and head-on, draining him like a-a 12-volt dual-speed cordless drill drains rechargeable batteries. He cursed under his breath at the thought of dying batteries while under a deadline. The day, the very day lithium-ion batteries made it to drills, he was going to-

All right, all right. Enough tool talk. There were more pressing issues at hand. Pausing outside the Magic Box to collect himself, he thought, _here goes nothing._ Just as he was about to push the door open, he heard Giles' voice, sounding weary and defeated, "...I won't be remaining in Sunnydale long."

Xander withdrew his hand. Giles was leaving? With everything unsettled and messed up and crazy and the Hellmouth unguarded- _and holy moly that's a scary thought_ , right when they needed adult supervision from a real adult-the kind that understood responsibility and exhibited emotional maturity, not just the kind barely of legal drinking age-he was going to pull a John Lennon and break up the Scoobies?

 _~ ~ To be Continued ~ ~_

 **Author's Note:**

Some of Spike's taunts directed at the Fyarls originate from the movie _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. Spike references Monty Python several times on the show. Clearly, he's a fan.


	3. On the Shore of the Wide World

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: On the Shore of the Wide World**

 _When I have fears that I may cease to be  
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,  
Before high-piled books, in charactery,  
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;  
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,  
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,  
And think that I may never live to trace  
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;  
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,  
That I shall never look upon thee more,  
Never have relish in the faery power  
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore  
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think  
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink._

 _— "When I Have Fears", by John Keats_

* * *

" _Surely you will have guessed that I won't be remaining in Sunnydale long."_

Anya could hardly contain her excitement. She knew how to interview for a position she was more than qualified to handle: deliver short, action-filled sentences with plenty of confidence and enthusiasm. "I can handle the store on my own, Giles. My skills are more than a match for the task. You've witnessed how I've been able to turn this store around and make it profitable. Now I may have to hire someone to help me move heavy inventory and mind the store while I take care of the accounting," Anya thought out loud. "But don't worry. Without having to pay you, which requires a co-owner's salary, the cash flow will actually improve." Having given Giles that piece of good news, Anya beamed at Giles and waited for him to cheer up.

Instead, he let out a mirthless chuckle. Softly, almost too softly for Anya to hear, he said, "Apparently, I'm even less needed than I thought." Then louder and more determined, "Very well. To help smooth the transition, I will notify the suppliers I've been handling and give you an introduction. You're more than welcome to contact me, of course, should the occasion arise that I may be of assistance."

Anya waved away that thought like an annoying gnat. "Oh, I'll be fine, Giles. Quit dithering." She thought she should nail down the exact terms of their partnership before Giles left, since it would directly affect budgets and profits—but later. Right now, she wanted to appear confident and authoritative, as if she had all the answers in the world and nothing could ever faze her.

Giles looked rather hurt, which confused Anya, who was doing everything to put Giles' mind at ease. Then she remembered reading an article on _small talk_ , which someone with a lot of titles behind his name had called "the thread of social fabric." It had sounded like the kind of thing Xander would want her to learn. Anya resolved to tame the thread with a firm but surprisingly enlightened system of reward and punishment and become the best weaver she could be. She would master it until it rolled over obediently, exposed its soft belly, and called her _Boss_. She dutifully prompted Giles with the _small talk_ , "When's your departing flight?"

"Eh…" Giles sputtered, "I uhm—that is to say, I haven't exactly settled on a date yet. You see, Buffy's funeral—"

"Oh, right! Tomorrow at sundown," Anya supplied helpfully. "Of course you wouldn't leave until after Buffy's funeral."

"Quite right." Giles looked as if he was struggling to come up with something else to say, which pleased Anya. She had seen another conversation come to a successful conclusion, like closing a sale. _Well done!_ She mentally patted herself on the back.

* * *

A sudden crash from the front of the store cut short Giles' effort to inject a new topic into their dying conversation and instead, brought it to a premature end. Anya darted out in an instant, and Giles, thinking fast, picked up the crossbow leaning against the wall, and followed in haste.

Xander, one arm gingerly cradling a bouquet of roses, was righting a stand of walking sticks. His legs kept getting tangled in the process. Giles lowered his crossbow and watched the boy's clumsy efforts at reparation, which only unwittingly sprinkled blood-red petals over the whole display.

"Oh, honey!" Anya squealed with delight, "You bought me roses!"

Briefly, Xander froze like a deer caught in the headlights, then redoubled his effort only to fail twice as fast. With a sheepish grin, he shouted back over the clattering, "Anya, Giles, yeah, little help here…"

Anya dashed to his rescue and lifted the roses out of his arms, gently as if it were a puppy. "Awww, poor flowers," she cooed at them. "Let me find you a vase and some water, and you'll perk up in no time!"

Both stunned, Giles and Xander watched her leave for the backroom, a spring in her step.

Xander resumed shoving the walking sticks back onto the hooks, only to have them crash down to the floor again. Heaven only knows how the boy had managed to keep his job in construction. No longer able to watch from the sidelines, Giles stepped up.

"Would you please—," said Giles with forced calmness, "stop moving!" Xander froze. Giving him a stern look, Giles reached out and restored the chaos back to order.

"Sorry about that, Giles," he mumbled. As if determined to prevent his hands from getting in trouble again, he shoved them deep into his pockets. With a hangdog expression on his face, he grumbled, "Why would a magic store carry canes? Do you get a lot of senior customers?"

"They're walking sticks, not canes." Anya reappeared and placed the roses, now in a tall crystal vase, on the counter. "They appeal to customers with an interest in Victorian fashion, and people who cosplay as mages. I've analyzed our customer demographics and diversified our inventory portfolio to increase product offering for our top market segments. You wouldn't understand."

The boy nodded numbly, clearly eager to concur. Giles doubted Xander even knew all of the words in Anya's over-enthusiastic explanation. In fact, Xander looked downright lost as he appeared to survey the inventory meaningfully, taking in the shelves of herbs and crystals, eyes lingering over spell books and the occasional fertility god. In the two years that the Magic Box had served as a sort of command central for slaying, he'd never shown any interest in the world of magic. Now he looked disoriented, as if he hadn't been frequenting it like a second home, but had only stumbled upon it for the first time quite accidentally.

Anya didn't seem to notice Xander's discomfort. Throwing her arms around him and standing on tiptoes to give him a passionate kiss, she added sweetly, "Thanks for the flowers, hon."

Afraid he might inadvertently witness something not fit for public consumption, Giles cleared his throat behind them. "Time for my exit. Anya has proven quite capable of running the Magic Box on her own. I will see you and the rest of the gang tomorrow at Buffy's funeral."

He turned to leave, but Xander blocked his path. "And then what? You'll leave Sunnydale?"

"Seeing that my Council obligation has concluded here, yes."

"This all just obligation to you? I thought you'd built a life here, Giles, with us." His tone was surprisingly vehement. Giles was taken aback. Among the group, Xander had always exhibited the most respect for seniority and hierarchy. Whereas Buffy had been challenging, Willow inquisitive, Anya dismissive, Spike confrontational, and Dawn apprehensive, Xander had always upheld Giles' Council-backed official title as basis for his authority. Perhaps the boy considered Giles' decision to leave to be a willing abdication of his leadership status, and with it, all accorded deference.

Giles sighed in resignation. This was precisely what he had hoped to avoid. Setting business to order with Anya had been necessary. He hadn't anticipated seeing any of the Scoobies here, not this early in the day, when Xander would be at work and the rest of them at school. His plan had been to delay the announcement and slip it to the gang after the funeral, then answer any questions once and for all. The prospect of repeat reveals and appeals, on a matter he considered personal and suspected to be untenable, seemed more exhausting than he could withstand at the moment.

Neither did he wish to dwell on the fact that the decision had been extremely difficult, and his resolve shaky to begin with. He had to get out of there, before the grief consumed him, devoured him, settled in the large hole in his heart like the Southern California smog that never budged on windless summer days like this, and permeated to stifle every aspect of his remaining, tattered life.

"Xander…it's time that..." he started patiently, sensing the need to placate, only to break off when he realized he had no idea what to say, how much to disclose. Years of secrecy by necessity due to the nature of his work combined with casual passivity on his part had reduced his social circle to essentially his Slayer's social circle, which consisted mainly of members of the MTV generation brought up on _Jerry Springer_. They valued habitual oversharing and emotional confessions above their respect for personal boundaries, prized melodrama followed by a quick resolution over nuanced development of genuine progress.

Giles wasn't one of them: His thought process could not be distilled into a single bullet point to suit their short attention span. His need for healing could not be satisfied by the Californian belief in the therapeutic powers of a group hug, or by anything external at all. In the end, his English upbringing won out. "It's time," he finished simply.

Xander bristled. "That's it? 'It's time'? What, now that the one-week Council-imposed mourning period is over, you're just going to abandon ship and leave us? Desert us?" Chest puffing, Xander seemed poised for a fight.

Giles cringed and retreated further into stoicism. He heard the hurt behind Xander's accusation, and he had no wish to hurt anyone. How many apocalypses had they prevented as a group, standing side-by-side, fighting shoulder-to-shoulder? Was it too much to wish for an amicable farewell, a dignified departure, a gentle slip into that good night?

"Xander," Anya looked like she could no longer hold herself back. "Do you really think the Watchers' Council won't recall Giles and give him a new assignment? They're probably waiting for him to report back right now."

Anya jumping to his rescue was unexpected, but Giles was not going to look a gift ex-demon in the mouth. He had always fought his own battles, and now he desired nothing more than a rest. He'd earned it with his losses, hadn't he?

Suddenly it occurred to Giles that a capable, ambitious business partner like Anya would naturally crave the opportunity to stretch her wings and fly solo, taking the Magic Box to new heights. Losing him would be akin to shedding dead weight. The thought that his departure might at least make someone's dream come true proved to be bittersweet.

Meanwhile, Xander whirled on Anya, and before Xander even opened his mouth, Giles felt sorry for him. He had a feeling Anya won every lovers' spat she'd ever had, and poor Xander would only be redirecting his anger, anger Giles had caused.

He had purposely neglected to mention that he was, in fact, going on holiday. He had requested a month of leave from the Council which, given the circumstances, had acquiesced. He glanced at the couple. Xander and Anya were now locked in a heated argument, which was probably not even about him anymore. Before either of them could notice, he seized his opportunity and slipped out of the Magic Box.

* * *

" _Spike!"_

 _He could hear the tears in her voice and scent her desperation. He leapt up the last three steps to land on the platform and took in the scene. Dawn, tear-stained but unhurt, was bound at the end of the platform. A few steps away, Doc, curiously dressed in a tuxedo, tried to conceal an ornate knife. The air felt charged with destiny, humming with magic. It was almost time._

"' _S alright, Nibblet. Spike's here."_

 _From his vantage point atop Glory's tower, Spike could barely make out the Scoobies below, pressed into a gradual retreat by the line of minions and crazies. Even this far away, the scent of human blood mingled with demon blood stung his nose. By the sound of Glory's wailing pleas, Buffy was winning. A good sign. This, here, was to be his fight._

 _He deliberately evened out his breathing. He needed to be calm and steady, focused and decisive. There was no margin for error here; he had too sodding much riding on it. Various strategies and fighting sequences flashed through his mind. An escape involving getting Dawn out of her restraint was unlikely. He could play out the delay tactic, as Doc was the only one on a deadline, but… Nah, that was never gonna fly. And not his style, truth be told. He was going to have to take out Doc, without spilling a drop of Dawn's blood. With hand-to-hand combat, his favorite dance._

 _Doc's head swiveled like an insect's, but it was Spike who felt pinned. "I was just keeping this lovely Key here company. And you've made it a crowd."_

 _Spike growled, shifting to game face to call forth all of his powers. "You don't come near the girl, Doc."_

" _We'll see about that."_

 _The demon charged, surprisingly spry, knife hand stealing forward to aim at Spike's abdomen. With vampire speed, Spike dodged the attack, taking advantage of the opening to wedge himself between Doc and Dawn, and pressed forward. A little more room for maneuvering._

 _Normally he wouldn't have bothered to watch such an insignificant weapon so intently, considering battle wounds more than a point of pride for a warrior, like badges of honor. Not tonight. He couldn't afford to be distracted or slowed down by a flesh wound. Not to mention, ritualistically, even a single drop of Dawn's blood could do the trick. He would've paid equal attention to a nail clipper._

 _Doc flexed his fighting hand, a sinister smile spreading to his bug-like eyes. "I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?"_

 _Spike's eyes flicked briefly to Dawn's. "I made a promise to a lady."_

 _They rushed each other then, Spike landing a high kick on Doc's wrist that sent the knife flying in a wide arc. Recovering quickly, Doc swept out Spike's standing leg, and the vampire landed sprawling on the platform._

" _Well, I'll send the lady your regrets," he taunted._

 _As Doc bent down and pulled back his arm to strike, Spike sat up and headbutted him, hard. Doc let out an involuntary cry, face contorted with pain. Springing up, Spike slammed his fist repeatedly into Doc's face and torso, earning groans and with the last blow, a sickening crunch._

" _Oh, yeah?" Spike roared. He flexed his fingers, then redoubled his effort. "But you're already dressed for your own funeral."_

 _He was going for the winning strike when Doc opened his mouth wide and his purple tongue shot out, fierce like a viper and agile like a frog's, to twine tightly around Spike's neck. He found himself spun around, raised in the air with his feet kicking uselessly, finding no purchase. Doc was chuckling behind him with a sickening gurgle, fighting to dust him now, not just to wound, and his heart sank when the punches he threw proved futile against the appendage cutting into his neck. High above the whistle of wind whipping past his ears was a scream, a girl's scream, his name. For one moment frozen in time, his eyes found Dawn's, fear met with fear, and wordlessly he beseeched her forgiveness, undeserving though he was._

 _In his despair Spike suddenly remembered the extra axe—Buffy's axe—stashed in his coat pocket—a nimble little number he had intended for one of the Scoobies, not a poleaxe, which he preferred. He swung it backward, edge first, with all his might, until it met with a satisfying resistance. The slick snake-like muscle wound around his neck loosened instantly, then went lax. He turned around just in time to watch Doc's axe-embedded body lose its balance over the edge of the platform._

 _Savoring the view one last moment before rushing to free Dawn, Spike said to nobody in particular, "Not this time, you bloody reptile! I keep my word."_

* * *

Giles felt a headache taking shape after leaving the Magic Box. He could use a drink. Sadly it was too early in the morning for propriety, and then there were those last minute details of the funeral to take care of. Hiding the death of the Slayer, which they had all deemed prudent, meant foregoing official channels for her burial. Giles had to do everything piecemeal, leaving no paper trail behind. It was a tiresome process, even armed with Council training on such matters and Council referrals to relevant merchants practiced in discretion.

Oh, such were the extent of his knowledge. Giles permitted a moment of self-pity to take hold. Demon physiology, magical spells and properties, and funeral arrangements on the down-low. He would be burying a hero, yet had to resort to tactics of the criminal. It left a very bad taste in his mouth. Bugger, he needed a drink. To hasten his journey, he considered cutting through the demon part of town, which was usually safe to do during the day, after all.

"Ptsss—"

It was remarkable to him that the human citizens of Sunnydale never questioned the supernatural elements and events in their town, never paid them any attention. _Sunnydale-itis_ , Willow had called it, this wilful ignorance that had most definitely contributed to the population of the dead outnumbering the population of the living in Sunnydale. That a demon could operate a florist business in broad daylight without so much as a double-take from her customers was evidence enough.

"Ptsss—"

Giles paused a moment to determine the best route. Right. Straight ahead then turn at the light and—

"Hey, Watcher!"

He spun on his feet, fist automatically raised high to strike. Willy cowered, palms up, "Don't-kill-me-I-come-in-peace!" he rushed out, hands shaking, eyes shut.

Giles allowed himself to relax at the recognition. "Willy. What possible business could you and I have in common?"

"Zero, none, absolutely nothing! I'm sorry! Don't kill me, please!"

"I'm not going to hurt you, you berk! Speak!"

Willy tentatively opened one eye, noted the lack of fists or weapons aimed for his head, and straightened himself. "I would never bother you, never think of it. Slayer would have my life! Just at my wit's end, that's all. What's a guy to do… But you passing by my humble door is surely a sign, and—"

"Willy—" Giles pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Willy looked left and right, eyes darting from shadow to shadow as if to make out imaginary spies concealed within—signs of paranoia. The streets were as empty as ever in the bright sun. Giles dug deep down into his reserves of patience and with effort, evened out his voice. "I'm going to ask you again: what do you want?"

Willy shook his head rapidly, like a scared child. "Wouldn't dream of asking you favors. Don't want trouble. Please don't kill me! A simple lost-and-found, that's all," he inclined his head toward his bar, then gestured for Giles to follow.

Giles hesitated. Given a large enough reward as motivation, the scoundrel would sell his own mother.

Willy huffed, "Oh, come on, man! Who you take me for? What kind of putz would dare go up against a Watcher, in broad daylight no less! I'm insulted that you'd even suggest— As God is my witness, no harm would come to you in my bar. Just—just spare my life, all right? It's not my fault is all I'm saying. I see trouble and I fold. And what does trouble do? Doubles down on me..."

He continued to prattle as he retreated into the bar, mouth going a mile a minute, spewing streams of mumble jumble which, as much as Giles could decipher, alternated between denials of wrongdoing and pleas for his life. Giles followed cautiously.

In the musty darkness of Willy's bar, Giles blinked and waited for his eyes and nose to adjust, his trusty dagger held fast and steady in his hand. He heard a groan from the very back, where Willy was currently shifting uncertainly from one foot to another.

He crossed the bar in a few confident strides to see a mess of a dark form curled in on itself on the filthy floor. A pair of bloodied hands, ivory bones poking out of the knuckles, clutched a tattered blanket to its head. A drunk demon, asleep. No, passed out. He looked up at Willy. "What's the meaning of—"

Willy lifted the blanket in a swift reveal, and Giles took an indrawn breath. "What happened?"

Willy swallowed nervously. "It wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me! Ducked out for an hour. Came back to find the bar about destroyed! Liquor ransacked, cash register raided, furniture nothing but broken heaps of wood—" he gestured at a three-legged table nearby for corroboration, and Giles noted, for the first time, that the bar was completely wrecked and in utter disarray.

"Ain't nobody left to pick up the tab. I started cleaning, and was about to close shop near sunrise when I found this loser in the alley out back, snoozing the snooze next to the dumpster and cradling a bottle of my _Macallan Fine Oak 25_." Willy looked as if he was about to weep at the thought of his good whisky wasted on the unworthy. "Dragged him in before his sorry ass could dust in the sun. I'm a businessman. I ain't taking sides. Know he runs with your crowd these days, and I'm not about to invite the Slayer and her many pointy weapons upon my neck!"

It was difficult to follow Willy's stream-of-consciousness rambling, but Giles thought he caught the gist of it.

He shook the form covered by remnants of a t-shirt and jeans. "Wake up! Come on, wake up!" It felt wet. Giles rubbed his fingers and held them up for a better look; they were coated in blood.

The vampire stirred, wiped his eyes, and looked straight at Giles. "I saved her, Watcher, you hear me? Saved her good…" His voice was thick and nasal, but there was no mistaking what he said. Letting out a dejected laugh, he closed his eyes again.

Willy nudged Giles and said in a conspiratorial tone, "Who'd he save? That's all I could get outta him. He's all choked up about it."

Lips pressed into a thin line, Giles pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and held them out to Willy. "For your discretion," he said, holding onto the bills for just a second longer so that Willy understood the unspoken consequences of retelling this particular story.

"Discretion, yeah yeah, sure. Slayer business, I get it..." Willy seemed emboldened by the money in his hands, as if it were a protection charm. His voice no longer trembled. "He's all yours," he indicated the unmoving form on the floor with his chin, before snickering, "William the Bloody...well, he's real bloody now."

Giles took a long look at Spike and thought, regrettably and just this once, that he would have to agree with Willy the Snitch.

* * *

Having deposited Spike back in his crypt for the second time in as many weeks, Giles was furious. He had planned on asking Spike to stay in Sunnydale to lend a hand in his absence, but that notion seemed absurd now. Spike, broken, drunk, and muttering under his breath like a bloody madman, was in no shape to be of use to anyone, not even to himself. And this time, Giles couldn't even ring Xander to help shoulder the vampire's weight, quite literally, after the way he'd left things in the Magic Box.

"I saved her, Watcher...Don't tell me I din't… Ev'ry night I...save her..." From the armchair, the barely conscious vampire waved his hand in an exaggerated flourish, and upon completing his Victorian bow, crashed to the floor. That sent him into a fit of giggles.

It had twisted Giles' inside to make sense of the vampire's ramblings the first time around, at Willy's. _Buffy._ Of course, Spike would be mourning Buffy. This time, however, with his head pounding and his back throbbing with pain from having to carry Spike's dead weight in a mad dash from Willy's car to the safety of his crypt, Giles found his sympathy waning. In fact, it seemed downright self-indulgent. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He pulled Spike up by what could pass for his collar, and slapped him hard.

Spike's head whipped as far back as it could go from the impact. "Oi! Whazzat for?" He opened one eye and growled at Giles. It might've been menacing if he weren't drooling on himself.

"Take a hard look at yourself, you candy-assed sissy! Buffy died so that this world wouldn't end, and you will not tarnish her memory by behaving as if it did!"

Giles chose his uncharacteristic diction for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of Spike, but the latter was apparently too busy wallowing in misery to notice. Giving no indication that he'd registered a single word, Spike pushed off the ground just high enough to flop back into his chair, then threw an arm across his eyes to return to chanting his mantra undisturbed. "Save her...every night I save her...every night—"

"You're not saving anyone in this wretched condition! For Heaven's sake, Spike! Have you forgotten your promise to Buffy already? _Dawn lives!_ "

There was a terrible sound, more animal than human, of a choked-back sob. As Giles watched for further reaction, the limp hand draped over Spike's face twitched, tightened into a fist, then slowly, as if with effort, trembled open. Dawn's name was apparently the magic word. "Nibblet…" Spike's voice wavered, then burst into open weeping. "Oh God, I've been a right wanker!"

Giles resisted the urge to comfort the heart-broken vampire. Spike needed to snap out of it. Quietly but with unmistakable heat, he pressed on, "Not long ago, you were ready to lay down your unlife for her. Buffy claimed that you swore to protect her. Was that all just a ploy to get Buffy into bed with you?"

Spike's whole body jolted, as if Giles' words delivered a shot of torment that pierced to the bone. Giles had a flashback of witnessing writhing demon bodies held in unforgiving currents from the Initiative's tasers. In a blink, Spike lurched up and got in Giles' face, almost managing to cover up his stagger, "'M a vamp of my word. Lost my head for a while there, but far as Nibblet's concerned, you can count on me." He held his head high, uncaring that his face was grief-stricken and tear-stained.

Having achieved the desired result, Giles hid a smile. "Very well. Here's something for which I'm counting on you: Funeral's tomorrow at sundown. You know where. I trust you'll be presentable, if only for Dawn's sake."

With that he departed the crypt, leaving an anguished but reawakening vampire to nurse his injuries in private. Recalling Willow's heart-breaking report on Dawn, Giles sincerely hoped he had knocked enough senses into Spike. God willing, Spike and Dawn might just save each other. And about bloody time, too.

~ To be Continued ~

 **Author's Note:** The Glory's tower dream scene adapts bits of dialogue from S5 "The Gift" by Joss Whedon, for continuity and context.


	4. I Am Not Resigned

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

by feliciacraft

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 4. I Am Not Resigned**

 _I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.  
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:  
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned  
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned._

 _Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.  
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.  
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,  
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost._

 _The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—  
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled  
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.  
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world._

 _Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave  
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;  
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.  
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned._

 _— "Dirge Without Music", by Edna St. Vincent Millay_

* * *

In the delicate, golden light of dusk, in a tranquil grove on the outskirts of Sunnydale, a group was assembling. Meticulously attired, with men in crisp suits and women in soft flowing dresses, they came together, in singles and pairs, bearing flowers. A truck was parked nearby, sheltered by foliage that prevented it from being visible from the road. Laden with precious cargo, it had been maneuvered into position with care; but due to sheer weight, had proven powerless to prevent the parallel gouges its tires had carved deep into the soft dirt in its wake. Like tear tracks. Like wounds.

Shielded from the last ray of the sun by the surrounding trees, a dark figure, clad in a leather duster, slipped in and merged with the group. Greetings and hugs were exchanged in whispers and stifled tears.

They had come to bid a final goodbye to Buffy Summers, the Slayer.

The group shifted to gather in front of a fresh grave, and the men marched to the truck. With Giles and Xander in front and Spike in the back, they slowly shouldered the casket to the grave, their footfalls muffled by the soft, lush grass grown unbridled. The women hummed, low and soothing, and Giles listened for the tune. No, not _Amazing Grace_. It was not grace that brought them here, no matter how they'd grown to accept this death. Ah, _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ , and Giles smiled despite himself. It felt right.

As the men lowered the casket into the grave, Dawn began to weep. Willow slid an arm around her waist as Tara rubbed her back and whispered in her ear. She nodded, then took the proffered tissue out of Anya's hand and dabbed her eyes.

The heavy lifting done, the men fell away, and rejoined the group.

The sun dipped below the horizon; the air stilled. Giles prefaced his goodbye with the Slayer prophecy, the one that had been branded upon all of their hearts:

" _Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness; To stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers. She is the Slayer._

"One girl in all the world," he repeated, looking away, waiting for his eyes to clear. After a moment, he continued, "This is the life we're celebrating today."

* * *

Spike stared at the coffin, mass-produced and store-purchased and unremarkable, and thought it unbefitting of the victorious Slayer, Heaven's Chosen One, so often relegated to anonymity among the humans she gave her life to protect, yet universally respected and feared by demonkind. She alone was the bogeyman to reign over the misdeeds of those who dwell in Darkness, her name mentioned but in whispers of awe and trepidation.

Equally inadequate was it for Buffy, the woman he had loved and loved still, ordinary where she was phenomenal, a harsh shell for such a delicate form, the shelter it bestowed a poor substitute for her own power and resilience.

He would have preferred the ritual of the olden days, to see a warrior's remains go up in flames atop a raging pyre, to see fire purified in fire. To watch the corpse that betrayed the bearer's lively spirit reduced to the empty lie it was, to listen to the fire's crackles and sizzles invade the silence over her unbeating heart, to close his eyes and bathe in the last of her warmth, to breathe in the burning ashes to fill his lungs deep, and keep her within.

He wanted to take her with him, immortality a terrible punishment for the cold, dark nights ahead, without her there. He wanted to hold on, to more than memories that would, in the dreaded long years of the hereafter, warm a vamp's lukewarm body, reawaken his long dead heart, and invoke his vacant soul. In short, he wanted her, and failing that, a recipe to bring forth the surcease of sorrow, something that might soothe a shattered heart.

He stared at the back of Dawn's head. If he'd been miserable, then Dawn… He'd sworn to protect her, yet how would he even begin to safeguard her from the worst kind of pain, from inner turmoil? He'd never again have what he craved, his golden Slayer, but something to do to dampen the guilt that'd been eating away at him wouldn't hurt.

* * *

Giles continued his eulogy, elegant and moving, yet Dawn couldn't register enough beyond the rise and fall of the words to grasp their meaning. How ironic, Dawn thought, that in the end, it was not the foretold forces of darkness that had brought down the Slayer. Not vampires, not demons, not troll gods or hell gods. It was love. It was her. How could she bear to say goodbye?

Willow gave Dawn a gentle nudge forward, but the teen was not ready, not nearly. Tara stepped forward instead, brought out two long tapered candles from her purse, and set them at the head of the grave. Before she could strike a match, a lit lighter was thrust before her—Spike, bending to please, offering his trusty Zippo. She nodded, and he brought the candles to life, trembling fingers aglow before trembling flames.

As silently as he had stepped up, Spike faded back. Tara began speaking, in a hushed tone, as if not to disturb a sleeping baby. Not wanting to miss a word, Dawn bit her lower lip and breathed deeply, slowly, holding back tears for the moment. Her mind, however, refused to settle, and instead of gliding on Tara's gentle voice, floated to anything and everything else: The way the blades of grass yielded beneath Tara's black Mary Janes but did not break. The way the casket fit into the open grave, so snug, contrasted with the thought of herself, after the witches have moved on, rattling away alone in her mom's big house, like a dried nut in a too-big shell. The smell of eucalyptus wafting through the air, recalling a thousand childhood memories, dozens of picnics, on days much like this one, with mom and dad calling from the car, and Buffy and her pausing mid play, almost out of breath from their game of tag and from laughing, to beg for just another five minutes, pretty please with sugar on top. And being yanked back to the open grave, Earth opening up to swallow Her child, Her protector, the same way it had recently swallowed Buffy and Dawn's mom.

Tara's voice broke, then dropped to a whisper. Something someone had said at her mother's funeral. Curiously, it resonated louder than before in Dawn's ears: _Your end, which is endless, is as a snowflake dissolving in the pure air._ _So beautiful_ , Dawn thought, _and profound_. But her grief-addled mind willfully rejected the beauty and the wisdom, because she couldn't, no way, no how, see her sister's death as anything but ugly and tragic and senseless. No Eastern philosophy could dissolve away the death and the associated pain. _Or,_ Dawn amended, _my sorrow, which is endless, is as a tear sinking into the freaking earth at a fresh grave. So, there._

Then Tara was done and bashfully stepping back. Willow, stepping forward at the same time, swooped up her hand and laced their fingers together, and with fortitude borrowed from Tara, she spoke, too, letting memories wash over her. Of high school friendship and courage and finding purpose and Bronzing and the good times, the last of which Dawn found hurt more than the bad.

Then Anya was suddenly there, the three of them in a huddle and Anya offering more tissues, all around, from her apparently bottomless supply, like one of those peddlers at a baseball game, carrying a ridiculous super-sized tray of popcorn and cotton candy and what else? Dawn couldn't recall at the moment. Kudos to Anya with the preparedness and the keen eye to spot a need and the perfect timing and, oh, she was crying again, alone and—

A solid set of arms pulled her close, into a chest robust like a wall of solidarity. She looked up to a blurred vision of Spike, his face wet too. "'Lo, Nibblet…" he murmured against her hair, "Let it out, Spike's got you…" His body was arched to envelop hers, as if to shield her from harm. His chin dug into the top of her head when he spoke, a point of comfort. In his strength she felt herself grounded, the tension draining out of her body to be replaced by an immense sense of relief. Relief that she had someone to cry with, and even more that Spike was not mad at her after all, for having caused the death of the woman he loved.

Then she felt Giles patting her on the shoulder, his movements stilted, as if he was embarrassed to break his personal code of zero public display of affection, to betray the magnitude of his emotions. And as he seemed to deliberate on his next move, Xander strode up past them to break up the sobfest of the three women, whispering to Anya, "C'mere, babe," and Anya poured into his arms. So did Willow, which meant he didn't so much break up the sobfest as join it.

Finally, all Scoobies, united once more, were reduced to blubbering, sniveling puddles of incoherence, and the conquest was complete.

Ironically, Dawn was the first to recover, now that she had Spike as backup. She had so much to say, and nowhere to start. She had something prepared on a sheet of lined paper, the kind she used for school, with a thick margin at the top for the student's name and three holes on the left for the binder. She had written and rewritten and crossed out her thoughts to the point of near illegibility, then dutifully replicated them on a mint sheet of paper. But it seemed silly now, before her sister's fresh grave, to smooth out a sheet of neatly folded paper, and clear her throat, and enounce, loud and clear, as if reciting in front of the class for a grade. As much as it was laid out for everyone to see, grief, Dawn thought, was very much a private matter. A sudden clarity struck her: She would never be able to let go of her sister, say a real goodbye, and she saw no need to put up a charade for the benefit of her sister's friends. They were mourning her, too.

So she saved her private thoughts for a private moment, alone with her sister, and said simply, "I love you, Buffy. I miss you so much. I remember what you said on Glory's platform: _The hardest thing in this world is to live in it._ I'll be brave, and live, for you, to be worthy of your sacrifice."

She turned to the group around her. Softly, she fulfilled her sister's last request, "Buffy said to give all of you her love." Spike's head jerked up; the unexpected message from beyond the grave not allowing him time to compose himself, to cover it up. Fortunately for him, everyone was too engrossed in their own grief to notice. "She said," Dawn continued, "that we have to take care of one another now."

"Were those...her last words, then?" Giles asked, clearly making a mental note. Dawn nodded. "Thank you," said Giles. "You've been remarkably brave."

She managed a meek smile, then turned to Spike. "Aren't you going to say something to Buffy?"

Spike hesitated, "Reckon much of what I want to say isn't fit for company." Dawn narrowed her eyes, and he added quickly, "But I did try my hand at composing a poem for her. Thing is," he exhaled shakily, "when you write about slayers…every poem is an epitaph, every song an elegy. Life burning so bright 'astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.' That last bit's from Samuel Beckett, who wrote as depressing as they come. Can't compete."

"Night once more…" Dawn echoed. "Well, it's good that you're a creature of the night, then."

He couldn't help but smile at his Nibblet's quick wit. She was going to be alright. He thought for a moment, then recited from memory, substituting "she" for "he" to fit:

 _When she shall die,  
Take her and cut her out in little stars,  
And she will make the face of heaven so fine  
That all the world will be in love with night,  
And pay no worship to the garish sun._

Dawn stared at him in shock and Spike shrugged. Giles supplied helpfully, his voice strained with surprise and curiosity, "Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ , except with the appropriate pronouns."

"Hey, I also happen to know a poem or two for this occasion," Xander's voice rung out, a bit too loud. He cleared his throat, and solemnly, slowly—

 _It's the circle of life, and it moves us all,  
through despair and hope,  
through faith and love,  
'til we find our place,  
on the path unwinding._

Anya was nodding pensively, and Giles frowned, but Dawn's eyes met Willow's. "Wait, is that from…the _Lion King_?!" Dawn snorted.

"What if it is?" Xander countered. "The way I see it, Disney deserves a Nobel for the fine literature they produce."

Dawn was doubling over with laughter. Xander reached out and ruffled her hair, "Made you laugh," he said proudly.

"Hey, stop it!" Dawn batted his hand away. "Dork!" she retorted elegantly, but there was no sting in her rebuff. Her smile said it all. And everyone else was smiling with her. _Maybe,_ she thought, daring to hope, _just maybe, everything_ would _be all right_.

* * *

In a tranquil grove on the outskirts of Sunnydale, hushed by weeping willows and incensed with eucalyptus, outside the confines of the town's myriad cemeteries, and where the myrtle flowers didn't reach, lay a warrior's last resting place. A tombstone, simple but ornamented with flowers and protected by an ancient spell invoked in the tears of friendship and family bonds, proclaimed its hero laid to rest below:

Buffy Anne Summers  
1981 — 2001

Beloved Sister  
Devoted Friend  
She Saved the World  
A Lot

~ To Be Continued... ~

* * *

 **Chapter End Notes:**

It was regrettable that the show didn't give us a funeral for Buffy at the end of Season 5, a chance for her friends and Dawn and the fans to say a proper (even if not final) good-bye. So, I wrote one. :)

I'm rather fond of this chapter. I'd love to hear what you make of it.


	5. What Doth Strengthen and What Maim

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

by feliciacraft

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Summary: In which Giles makes a surprising discovery about Spike and ends up rather the worse for wear, and Willow takes on extracurricular activities.

Chapter Notes: Title is taken from the poem "Bards of Passion and of Mirth" by John Keats, with an excerpt quoted at the beginning of the chapter.

* * *

 **Chapter 5. What Doth Strengthen and What Maim**

 _Here, your earth-born souls still speak  
To mortals, of their little week;  
Of their sorrows and delights;  
Of their passions and their spites;  
Of their glory and their shame;  
What doth strengthen and what maim._

— _From "Bards of Passion and of Mirth" by John Keats_

* * *

"I'm hooome!" Dawn shouted from the entrance, performing her usual circus act of shedding her backpack and jacket in one smooth move while shutting the door with a kick. A wave to dismiss Janice's mother, who had dropped her off and was waiting outside in her idling car, concluded today's impromptu addition. The car drove off.

"Tara! Willow!" Her volume increased to the top of her lungs. Without waiting for a response, she made a beeline for the refrigerator in the kitchen. The fridge light snapped on as she rattled the door open to consider her options: a third of a carton of milk, a roasted chicken under clear wrap, a Chinese takeout box with congealed leftovers that had become all but unidentifiable, two bottles of soda rolling sideways on the door, and a tub of _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_.

Through the dripping condensation of the plastic wrap, she tried to engage the chicken in a staring match, but the chicken only played dead. _Meh._ She reached for the milk instead, and gulped down most of what was left in the carton before tossing the not-exactly-empty container back in the fridge.

Kicking the fridge door shut behind her, she continued her call. "Tara! Willow! Anybody home?" After a few seconds of silence, she added tentatively, "Spike?" Getting no response, she muttered, "Where is everyone?" as she ran up the stairs two at a time and looked in all the rooms, even Buffy's.

Empty.

Nobody was there to witness her deflate like a flat tire onto Buffy's bed and try very hard not to cry.

After a long time, she sat up to face the still-empty house. Her efforts to hold back tears had not been entirely successful. "Fine! I can be not-here too! Watch me!" she announced to the silent walls, storming down the stairs and out the door.

It slammed behind her.

* * *

The door creaked inward, apparently unfastened.

"Spike? Are you around?"

Giles' words, as well as his knocking, went unanswered. Deciding that it would look quite silly to be seen addressing an open crypt door in a cemetery, he stepped in and secured the door behind him.

"Spike?"

His voice echoed in the vaulted crypt and he briefly considered backing out to return at a more opportune time, but the truth of the matter was, a visit with Spike was bound to be awkward anytime—well, _ghastly_ might be the better word. And once there, he'd rather just get it over with. He wouldn't be in Sunnydale long.

He'd timed his visit an hour before sunset to catch the vampire in his lair, suppressing that itch from years of Council indoctrination to pull out a stake and drive it home, past a satisfying crunch of ribs and through an unbeating heart.

He had a good aim, unlikely to miss. And that itch...was so like an instinct now, it almost short-circuited the logical part of his brain, overriding his understanding that Spike was an exceptional vampire.

Thank God for _almost_. What a relief that he hadn't quite fossilized into the over-zealous rigidity of Quentin Travers, who held fast outdated notions in polarizing black and white against evidence of a nuanced reality staring him in the face.

The earth moved, shoving a Persian rug into an arch.

"Rupert!" Spike's head and the top of his bare shoulders poked out from under the rug-concealed trapdoor. He sounded taken aback by the identity of his visitor. "Give us a mo'—jus' need to get decent for company."

He disappeared without waiting for a response. As Giles waited, curiosity got the better of him, and—strictly for academic interest only, he insisted to himself—he examined Spike's worldly possessions.

There really wasn't much, just what Giles imagined as the bare necessities of modern unliving: TV, armchair, sofa, mini-fridge, and a couple of end tables, all tattered or jury-rigged to suggest they'd been salvaged from the dump. The pillars of candles and Persian rugs provided a hint of warmth, but interior decoration held no specific interest for Giles.

That left the bookcase, which literally made him take a step back. _Spike...reads?_ Giles had no doubt that he could, just...the mental image of the Big Bad, curling up with a book by candlelight after a spot of violence at Willy's seemed…rather incongruent. Was his punk rocker, devil-may-care attitude all just a cultivated act? Giles surveyed the shelves: epic poetry by the likes of Homer and Dante, works of the three canonical Latin poets Virgil, Ovid, and Horace, and a collection of annotated Greek mythology took up the top shelf. Impressive.

Various works of Shakespeare, in mismatched sizes and formats and showing different degrees of wear-and-tear, cobbling together a surprisingly complete collection, pretty much filled out the second shelf. On the bottom shelf and tightly packed were volumes bearing venerable names such as Edna St. Vincent Millay, Dylan Thomas, and Pablo Neruda. And in one end, offset by a heavy skull bookend, arranged chronologically as only a scholar would, instead of alphabetically, were poetry from the "Big Five" of the Romanticism movement: Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lord Byron, Shelley, and Keats.

Giles didn't know what to make of it.

Spike's library, excepting modern poetry, was an exact subset of Giles' own collection, which in _his_ case was a reflection of his Classics background. Some of the same books had followed Giles since his rebellious days at Oxford. He'd had to wrestle with the plausibility of Spike the white hat, a redemptive, soulless vampire. He was not quite ready for the notion of Spike the poet.

The memory of Spike quoting _Romeo and Juliet_ at Buffy's funeral took on a new light. Giles had assumed at the time that Spike had looked up an appropriate stanza, perhaps with the help of one of the Scoobies, and drilled it into his head just for the occasion. He had similarly written off Spike's demonstrated familiarity with the St. Crispin's Day Speech before the battle with Glory as something that all Brits knew. Staring at the bookcase, he suddenly came to the conclusion that in both cases, Spike had pulled the excerpts out of his repertoire on the spot and recited them from memory.

Giles felt slightly better upon his discovery of the _Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe_. From one macabre romantic to another, that was Spike through and through.

There was a sudden dull sliding sound—from dragging the rug over the trap door, Giles deduced. He turned on the spot, and came face to face with Spike, light-footed as a cat and swift as only a vampire could be. In the warm flicker of candlelight, the sharp angles of Spike's face might have been softened by his upturned mouth, but the stirring shadows rendered his expression unreadable. Were those specs of gold flashing in his eyes? Giles couldn't be sure. His lips parted to let escape a faint, involuntary gasp, for although he had no fear, he was not foolish enough to repudiate the threat of a master vampire in the familiar ground of his own lair.

* * *

The compact book collection held a number of occult classics and rarities: _De Lamiis et Pythonicis Mulieribus_ , a 15th century German treatise on witchcraft and feminine power; _De praestigiis daemonum,_ the 16th century demonology bible in its original Dutch, with a volume of modern French translation next to it; the Cambridge translation of the 9th century _fengshui_ classic, _Esoteric Pronouncements of the Green Satchel_ , with a companion volume of interpretation; the medieval _Oracula Sibyllina_ , a book of prophecies ascribed to the Sibyls, oracular women of ancient Greece.

Some of the books were worn down to the binding, yellow with age, preserved in acid-free, archival cellophane sleeves. Some were leafed with notes in neat, tight handwriting, almost doubling in girth from the meticulous additions. A couple of relics that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations of antiquity might fetch a handsome sum at reputable auction houses, and significantly more on the black market. Others had been perused with enough frequency that the leather covers had darkened with oil from contact, and softened and polished to an attractive sheen.

Willow closed her eyes and ran a hand over an entire row of mixed-material book spines, listening for the soft hiss of depressed paper dust jackets and the crisp crinkles of ruffled cellophane. So much knowledge bound within, so much power hidden in the text, as a riddle, a verse, a ludibrium, or an acrostic, wanting to be freed, _waiting_ to be wielded. By someone capable and fearless and _worthy_.

Someone, Willow thought with absolute clarity and total certitude, like her.

She arched her back for a deep inhale, wanting nothing more than to imbibe all the power the books could offer, assimilate it, lock it within her. Either by misplaced trust or negligence, Giles had foregone protection spells on the collection, relying instead on a simple lock and key to restrict access. Which was hilarious considering anyone with half an interest in it would have to be an accomplished witch or warlock. The magicks Willow had accumulated in her repertoire would make Spike's breaking-and-entering bag o' tricks look like child's play. No twisted bobby pin or tell-tale marks of forced entry; she had dismissed the physical barrier with a trivial incantation and a mere wave of her hands.

She banished a stray self-deprecating thought about the situation: she was such a bookworm, sneaking into the Magic Box like a thief only to covet thy neighbor's library. When Giles left, he would no doubt strip the Magic Box of his personal collection and Council property, thus depriving the rest of them of the valuable research material. What a shame. Willow affected a pout on that thought. Never mind that the struggle between good and evil on the Hellmouth would simmer on, flaring now and again. It must have lasted millennia before them, and would go on to outlast them all.

Unless, of course, the recently intensified evil forces had all been held in check by the Slayer, and her sudden absence would quickly tip the scale in the wrong way. That would be of the major bad. Willow felt her resolve harden, her motivation renew. Challenges had that effect on her. She had a calling too—she sensed it then. She had already outgrown her shy, wallflower phase, but the world had yet to witness just how much it had underestimated little Willow. Nobody else in her circle was going to die, not even in a hell dimension, not if she could help it.

She refocused on the work at hand. Her locator spell had led her to the Magic Box. A quick glance revealed the books to be organized first by subject matter, then in alphabetical order, as Giles was wont to do, given any collection of books numbering more than three. Must be an occupational hazard for an ex-librarian. There was a brief moment of confusion and panic as a volume-by-volume scan of the "A" portion of the magic books section failed to yield the _Aldaraia_ , as Willow had hoped. She wouldn't screw up a simple locator spell. That was the magical equivalent of the freshman intro class.

She took out her loyal notebook—this one color-coded purple for magic—and double-checked the title: _Aldaraia sive Soyga vocor_. Translating that on the fly from Latin to English, Willow muttered, " _Aldaraia, also called Soyga_."

The satisfaction of the aha moment was further bolstered by the sweet discovery itself. There it was, the _Book of Soyga_ , a plain hardback, sans dust jacket, right after _Songs and Incantations of Ancient Maya_. _Go me!_ Willow smiled to herself as she pulled out the reproduction of the 16th century tome of rituals and enchantments, self-proclaimed to hold the truth of life and rules of nature.

The last book she had acquired, the _Voynich Manuscript_ , had been a terrible disappointment. A historian with a lifelong interest in mysticism, and a crackpot, Willow thought bitterly, had declared it the greatest transcendental grimoire of all time. That superlative had prompted Willow to dutifully track down a turn-of-the-century facsimile on eBay, outbidding book collectors and art historians alike with a pretty penny, only to end up with a useless and unsightful paperweight. The content had been written in a language she didn't recognize on sight and failed to crack with her brilliant hacker mind, backed by the greater wisdom of the Internet.

It had been an auction rookie mistake. She should've had the foresight to request content pictures from the seller. But her unbound enthusiasm over the accidental discovery of the fortuitously-timed auction had overruled any caution. And instead of boring, time-consuming research in order to boost her confidence in the utility of the book, she had so cleverly used the time to develop a reusable computer program that altered the auction site software to permit a final bid from herself only, thus guaranteeing her victory.

Too soon, however, still high from the thrill of testing out her computer program and bubbling with pride over turning a nail-biting bidding war into a sure thing, she was forced to admit her oversight. Instead of being the Holy Grail, this manuscript of grandiloquent claims had turned out to be nothing more than a mirage, a diversion on the road to true solutions. Willow hadn't let that temporary setback corrode her resolve.

It looked as if now she was back in business.

Opening to a random page to inspect, she eagerly studied a figure drawing of a cluster of dots, and frowned at its caption. The alphabet was of Latin construct, as it should be, but the words were utter gibberish.

She sank down to the floor, sitting cross-legged and leaning against the bookcase. She recognized none of the words, which was saying a lot. Not to brag about her self-taught Latin, but after all the Scooby research parties and her diligent and systematic devouring of every spell book she could get her hands on over the years, she wouldn't blink to go up against a Classics professor in an Archaic Latin slam, had such things existed.

Willow tried a revealing spell to see if the text would reorganize itself into simple, straightforward Latin. No such luck. Intrigued, she unclipped a pen from the front pocket of her backpack without taking her eyes off of the book, and set to work.

* * *

"I'd gladly lend you that book"—Spike indicated the one in Giles' hands with his chin, then tilted his head to read the title—"except I'd wager you already have it in your library. Don't you, Rupert?"

Spike had taken care to make himself presentable, double-checking that his all-black ensemble was clean and undamaged by self-destructive bar brawls, and his voice ungarbled by alcohol. His self-image barely bore the embarrassment of repeat rescues by the Watcher. His reputation could not survive tales of William the Bloody's inability to handle his liquor or fight his own battles. That he was anxious to make a good impression on the Watcher for reasons unrelated to his Big Bad image, he dismissed like a spent cigarette.

"Indeed." Giles waved Dante's _Purgatorio_ at the bookcase, the source of his current bewilderment. "I must say I'm impressed by your book collection. You have quite a…sophisticated taste."

Despite Giles' calm demeanor, Spike could hear the quickened thumping of his heart and scent the intoxicating albeit faint perfume of his fear in the air, which made his fangs itch to drop. Chip or no chip, white hat or demon core, Spike could not override a hundred and twenty years of conditioning as a vampire. The Pavlovian triggering of appetite by proximity to human, though far from overwhelming since his days as a fledgeling, was automatic.

He reached for Virgil's the _Aeneid_ to call forth his humanity. Would Virgil, who spoke prophetically of gods and men, bestow upon him, by all accounts a lowly creature of the underworld, an act of benevolent divine intervention? Would Virgil, who seemed to regard fate above free will and one's own desires, deny him a fighting chance for redemption? Would those around him? He wondered.

He opened the _Aeneid_ to a dog-eared page and let his eyes glide over the familiar Latin, and watched with smug satisfaction as Giles' jaw dropped _further_. He'd been able to fool everyone into underestimating him. Time for William the Bloody Reformed Vampire to show off.

"What, you 'spect to find stashes of _Playboy_ and _Guns &Ammo_?"

Giles parted his lips for a reply, then seemed to think better of it. Spike cocked one eyebrow. "Got those too. Well, not the ones about guns. Never could abide them. Bit like cheating. Seeing as I'm never without my weapons." He flashed his fangs to elaborate, gleeful when Giles frowned.

Except that with the chip forcibly implanted in his head, his good ol' days of intimidating humans had come to an end. His bumpies had been reduced to a show of empty posturing only, similar to putting on a suit of armor...made of paper. There was cold comfort in hanging around oldies, those who still recalled visions of his demon unleashed in all of its glory.

"And push comes to shove, I much prefer the assurance of a well-crafted axe in my hand: resilient hardwood haft, reinforced single-bit steel head. It's all about the sensation when you hit target." He swung his hand through air with confidence, stopping just short of the bookcase. "Can see how you'd make that mistake about my preferred reading material, though. A soulless demon like myself couldn't possibly harbor a secret interest in Homer and Shakespeare or books at all when, in fact, it's Slayer who—"

The sudden thought of Buffy attacked his defenses like a landslide. No longer able to muster the mental capacity to prop up the façade of casualness he had so meticulously put on for Giles' sake, he instead let it crumble down like a house of cards, falling where they might. Impressing Giles had suddenly lost its appeal. He didn't feel like showing off; he wanted to hide. Aware of the Watcher's eyes on him, he returned the volume of Virgil to the shelf to stop the trembling of his hands, and finished softly, "—it's Slayer who...didn't read."

"Yes," Giles replied in matching tone, hands gliding over familiar titles as if to recall memories behind each—memories, Spike suspected, of happier times, of a resilient youth. Instead of meeting Spike's eyes, he appeared to be fascinated with his hand, now draped over _King Lear_. "Buffy's idea of enlightenment was tips from this month's _Cosmo_."

They both chuckled at that.

Spike pulled out his cherished half bottle of _Macallan 18_ from behind the tome by Edgar Allan Poe—who, he spared a random thought, had known something about drinking. _Oh, Buffy!_ Would he ever get to the point where thinking about her wouldn't feel like being gored by a Kungai demon's Tak horn? Eternity might be deep and wide, but he feared that even as dust, he'd mourn her loss and feel the pain ingrained in his demon essence, whatever that was. He resisted the urge to chug the bottle straight up— _must appear civilized before our guest here_ —and instead retrieved two chilled glasses from the mini-fridge.

"And the words she used sometimes"—Spike reminisced, collapsing heavily into his armchair, bottle firmly in hand—"you'd think she'd never cracked open a dictionary in her life." He tipped the bottle over a glass for an extended pour, then downed the content in one gulp. He'd fought plenty of demons before and since, but no amount of physical violence would diminish his longing. He missed her quips and taunts that suited their dances together like music. Under his breath, he murmured, "Bloody adorable."

Giles sent him a look and sank down to the nearby sofa. "You're one to talk! A significant portion of your vocabulary is taken up by swear words."

"Why, thank you, Rupert. Didn't think you cared enough to notice. By the by"—he shifted uncomfortably—"'preciate your coming to my aid at Willy's. Din't seem right to bring up at the funeral, but—much obliged." He inclined his head at Giles, proffering a glass with a generous pour of whisky.

"Yes, quite," said Giles ungraciously. Grabbing the glass, he took a long sip. "You pull that rot again, I'll personally kick your pale vamp arse six ways from Sunday!"

Threats from Giles were nothing new, but the heat behind his words struck Spike as particularly heart-felt. He swallowed an automatic "Would like to see you try!" challenge, no doubt expected of him, a typical short-circuited retort from ego to mouth, bypassing his brain entirely.

Sensitized to the rawness of Buffy's loss, he didn't trust his feelings these days, but it _almost_ sounded as if the Watcher actually cared for his welfare. On second thought, it made sense that the Watcher would hold his self-destructive tendencies in contempt. He was a teacher at his core, and a self-reliant warrior against darkness. To him, the waste of unrealized potential, by giving in to one's inner demons, must be the worst offense.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Spike chuckled. He had thought that nothing mattered anymore, but he was wrong. He still had more to lose. "Anyway, got the Bit to take care of, yeah? Cleaned up my act." It felt liberating to come clean to Giles. He'd done it for Dawn, hadn't he? Now all they'd got left was each other. No more, no less. And for Spike it would remain so, as he'd promised, _'til the end of the world_.

"So I've heard. Reports from Willow noted your presence at Revello Drive every night since the funeral, looking after Dawn." Giles' tone was neutral as he watched Spike.

"Ah, got your eyes and ears on me, have you, Watcher?" He let escape a dejected exhale of air. So he was still not to be trusted, after all. He swirled the amber liquid in his hand, then downed a long swig. His day had started out with so much promise.

"On the contrary," said Giles. "Willow seems to be under the impression that I expect regular updates on _everyone_ from her. It'd be flattering if not for the way she quietly ignores my express counsel, while putting on a show about yielding to my authority. As is, I find it…" Giles paused to sip from his glass. "Unnerving."

"Hmm." Spike took in this new information. He'd always pegged Willow as a dangerous witch with a latent thirst for power, unlikely to settle for the position of second fiddle for long. He didn't know if he believed in auras or psychic readings, but there was something about Willow, a humming dark power attuned to the vibrations of the Hellmouth, that always set his demon on edge. In the presence of the boisterous Buffy, the Chosen One, she had been overshadowed and dangerously overlooked. Now, in the power vacuum of the aftermath… Spike thought it was high time someone else had picked up on it as well.

"You couldn't possibly be confiding in me now, could you, Rupert?" He regarded Giles with suspicion. "Clearly 'member being told my opinion would _never_ be wanted."

"'In the course of my life I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.'"

Spike laughed heartily, head rolling from side to side on the back of his chair. "Winston Churchill. Well, he'd know a thing or two 'bout eating his words." He raised his glass to Giles, then brought it to his lips and drained it dry.

Giles smiled warmly and returned the gesture, before taking a hearty mouthful from his own glass. Was he testing Spike's knowledge? Either way, he seemed satisfied. "Good to have _someone_ finally get the references I make! Talking to these _children_ in California, I'm afraid to lower my IQ through osmosis."

"Yeah, we Brits gotta stick together in this land of the colonials." Spike poured himself another, and topped off Giles' glass. "No decent cuppa to be had, that's for sure. Except at yours, Rupert."

Giles downed half the glass in one swig. "I'd trade Earl Grey for your beverage of choice here any day. Speaking of Merry Ol', I won't be long for the land of the uhm, colonials, as you put it."

Spike had known Giles would be leaving, but hadn't expected the courtesy of a personal farewell from the Watcher. He felt vindicated, in a way, if an act of desertion could be wrangled to represent fellowship and acceptance. Nah, not the act, _per se_ , he reconsidered, but the forewarning thereof. As if they were equals. As if he mattered. Flustered, he wasn't sure how to respond.

"And you thought it fitting to crown me the head of the farewell party committee?" He settled on redirection to humor. It'd served him well before.

Giles laughed heartily, reclining and putting his feet up the sofa. "Well, I shudder to think of the refreshments, but the liquor I trust will be top shelf?"

"Only the best for you, Watcher. Only the best."

"And come by honestly?" he hastened to add, sitting up with the glass of _Macallan 18_ safely within his grasp.

"Oh, certain sure! An' to be enjoyed responsibly." Spike nodded, wearing his best innocent expression. Giles narrowed his eyes.

"But before I lose my train of thought, I've rather a proposition for you..."

Spike sent the Watcher a quick glance: serious Giles was back. Quietly, he put down his drink, but covertly topped off the Watcher's. The latter had recently witnessed him sloshed four-on-the-floor at Willy's, which made it imperative he stayed reasonably sober throughout this conversation. And just to asseverate he was still evil, Spike relished the thought of turning the tables on the Watcher. By the look of it, he was already half way there.

~ To Be Continued... ~

* * *

 **End Note:**

With the exception of _Songs and Incantations of Ancient Maya_ , which I made up for the alphabetical order, all the book titles mentioned in this chapter belong to actual books. _The Voynich Manuscript_ , in particular, is a real mystery, in that the unknown alphabet used to write the medieval book has never been successfully decoded.


	6. One Link in the Chain of Destiny

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

by feliciacraft

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 6 One Link in the Chain of Destiny**

 _It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link in the chain of destiny can be handled at a time._

 _— Winston Churchill_

Willow was getting nowhere with the _Book of Soyga_. She had selected and analyzed what looked to be a representative sentence in length and construction preceding the figure. Nine word-like segments, the shortest of which had two letters, the longest eleven, interspersed in a reasonable fashion. The words did not look artificial, as would a foreign work transliterated to be Romanized in appearance.

The text also demonstrated adherence to a set of complex orthographic rules, characteristic of a real language. The letter groupings exhibited a number of patterns over and over again, with a somewhat regular distribution of vowels to be phonologically sensible. Some words, specifically a few short ones, showed up in high frequency, also true of most Latin-based languages. The punctuations, for what it was worth, were all the regular, familiar ones. In summation, she found plenty of evidence of a pronounceable language with a reasonable spelling convention, not statistically likely to be one of fabrication by anyone short of an expert linguist.

Willow idly wondered which word of this mystery language mapped to the equivalent of the English "the", the most common English word by far. Was it like Middle English to its modern derivative, as in Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_ , where the words looked funny, but made sense once pronounced? Inspired into trying a phonetic approach, she read a paragraph out loud according to Latin pronunciation rules, and the words rolled off her tongue in an unfamiliar clip, alternatively wispy and sharp. She struggled over back-to-back consonants, double vowels, and words with de-emphasized ending syllables. The resulting cacophony didn't sound like any dialect she recognized.

Willow was starting to sweat, figuratively and literally. Sneaking into the Magic Box after hours had the disadvantage of having the central air conditioning shut off. She'd come prepared with essential supplies: water, flashlight, notebook, Latin-to-English dictionary, laptop; but an electric fan would not have fit into her backpack. She shifted her weight uncomfortably and considered her next move.

If the book had been encrypted using a cipher, the most common algorithm would have been a substitution cipher, which replaced one or a group of letters with another. Cracking the code required performing frequency analysis and mapping high frequency letters in the encoded text to those in the target language.

Willow flipped to the back of her notebook to scan through her cheat sheet of useful data: In the Latin alphabet, the letters of the highest frequency were _i_ , _e_ , _a, u, t, s_. She quickly entered a couple of pages from the middle of the _Book of Soyga_ into her laptop to calculate the character distribution. She stared back at the results: right at the top of the frequency matrix were _e_ , _u_ , _i_ , _a, s, t_ , pretty much the same letter frequency as Latin. That suggested that the letters were not substituted, but merely scrambled.

A transposition cipher? Sucking air through her teeth, Willow leaned back on the bookcase. That would be decidedly more challenging. A solution could take days. It might continue to elude her. And if this turned out to be another dead end—

 _No._

She would not give up a second time. She rubbed her eyes furiously, refusing to allow the stinging she felt there to turn into tears. Tirelessly she had worked, relentlessly she had pursued, while everyone around her moped and sighed and wept and fled, regretting the past, wasting the present, and giving up on the future. It all added up to a big heap of heart-felt, touching, miserable, pathetic nothing. Down a slayer and everyone suddenly forgot how to live on the Hellmouth, as if all those cemeteries Buffy used to patrol held only daisies and not corpses. People died all the freaking time in Sunnydale, usually attributed to supernatural causes. That was the brutal truth. The only thing that improved their chances was the presence of the Slayer.

And the only solution to their current predicament was to bring Buffy back.

Was she the only one who was clear-eyed and clear-headed enough to realize that? She wanted more than anything to once again see the old Scooby Gang spring back and jump into action, the way they always had in the face of adversity. Instead, the only action going around seemed to be a downward spiral of wallowing in self-pity, leaving her working out the details of the solution on her own.

Come to think of it, the whole thing had been terribly unfair. How many times had Buffy saved the world? And the world apparently wasn't going to lift a single finger to help save Buffy. Willow had had no luck with the search for the resurrection spell; everything had to be done the hard way. She had no doubt she could do it, but she thought that all the karma points Buffy must have accumulated bailing out the world should account for something.

Distilling rage into focus, Willow grabbed the _Book of Soyga_ and once again, studied each word in the open spread, scanning for anything that sparked recognition. She brightened when she saw, sprinkled among passages that meant nothing, _esse_ ("be"), _tenet_ ("holds"), _rotas_ ("wheels"), and _ibit_ ("go"). She had to blink to read _ibit_ , though—her eyesight must be failing—because at first, she thought she'd read _tibi_ , Latin for "yourself".

Then a lightbulb went off in her head. _Rotas_ backwards was _sator_ , or "sower", and _esse_ and _tenet_ were both palindromes, the same forward and backward. Could it be…?

She tested her theory on a random gibberish word, _eallets_ , which when read from right to left revealed itself as _stellea_ , "stars".

Grinning from ear to ear, she tore through her backpack to come up triumphantly with a compact mirror, and pressed it—with a trembling hand, whether from excitement or nerves she couldn't tell and didn't care—perpendicular to the opened page. Like magic, familiar Latin phrases, whole sentences, no, the entire page flew out of the mirror image to form a cohesive narrative. Willow fell back laughing like an idiot until she was lightheaded and beginning to see stars. It appeared that portions of the book had simply been recorded backwards.

"Am I good or am I good?" She asked the book. She was so ecstatic she forgave on the spot the grandstand scribe who must have either sought relief for his boredom or had one hell of a twisted sense of humor. Either way, she took it as a sign of divine approval. Her efforts had paid off.

Boosted by her victory, she traced a finger down her notebook for the next grimoire on her list: the first volume of _Mafteah Shelomoh_ , or the _Key of Solomon_. Purported to be authored by King Solomon himself, which was highly dubious, it was irrefutably held as the origin of numerous rituals for invoking spirits and summoning the dead. Her Hebrew was a bit rusty, but she would manage. She had muddled through all those texts on practical Kabbalah just fine, and they had been long-winded and equally high on the cryptic meter.

If the _Key of Solomon_ truly dated to medieval times, however, a modern copy might prove to be unreliable due to errors and omissions through generations of duplication by hand, and due to mistranslations based on secondary or altered sources. The result was not unlike a game of Chinese whispers, with each step departing further and further from the origin, until it was all but unrecognizable. This, more than the true identity of its author or authors, worried Willow.

She sighed, lips pressed into a thin line of determination. Beggars could not be choosers. She needed to find a copy first, then make a judgement call about the trustworthiness of its content once she'd reviewed it. With that thought, she shifted onto her feet, stretched her legs, and stepped in front of the "K" section of Giles' books.

* * *

"Getting back to the matter at hand"—Giles paused, waiting for his thoughts to catch up—"there may well come a time when—when my resources may yet prove to be of assistance." His impending departure did not change his force of habit to be thorough. He tried to recite the 7 Ps from training. Was it "Prior Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance"? He tried to think of other P words in their stead: _practice, proper, patience, potential, prophecy, prayer, plight, plaintiff, predicament, pounding pain…_

He massaged his temples and reigned in his digressing thought. "Until then, I would not object to uh, being kept abreast of the potential dangers, albeit from five thousand miles away." The Council blended military discipline with academic rigor, encouraged youthful optimism while drilling age-old practices into its operatives. And Giles had been the _crème de la crème_. He was not in the habit of leaving situations unwatched, business unfinished. He rooted around in his pockets and felt out a business card, and laid it on the table between them.

Spike glanced at the card intently, as if beholding a curio, but didn't pick it up. Giles considered what this lack of action meant.

"Am I to be a spy for you, then? On my own comrades? For a deserter?"

The jibe was expected, juvenile and befitting of Spike, Giles reminded himself. He was really off his game if he let Spike get to him. Staring suspiciously at the glass in his hand, its content the seductive hue of honey, he felt rather than saw the swirling motion. It beckoned. Giles blinked slowly. He could've sworn it had been empty just a moment ago. "Do you consider them your comrades? Now that the battle's ended?"

"Not going anywhere. Told Buffy I'd protect li'l sis 'til the end of the world, as you well know." Spike's pain and regret were laid out in his face like an open book. How did he manage to cheat at poker with a face like that? Giles wondered idly. Didn't seem fair that a demon should appear so... _human_.

"Reckon I've the rest of my unlife to atone for that buggered rescue on Glory's tower with acts of contrition," Spike continued, and Giles rushed mentally to catch up. "And this being the Hellmouth, Rupert, next battle's jus' 'round the corner."

Yes, and the next one, and the next one, and the one after that. Endless as waves, the Hell's army lay in wait, while the Hellmouth stirred, pulsating with its evil energy, bubbling with rife potential for disaster. Giles felt like a boy trying to turn back the tide of evil with a child's water bucket, one scoop at a time, laboring ceaselessly, feet wet and freezing on the belligerent shore. He let his eyes close for a second, begging that mental image to dissolve. "Quite right."

Reassurance from Spike eased Giles' own conscience about his pending desertion. He realized, as a surge of relief washed over him, how much he had needed it, depended on it. In Buffy's absence, in her place, the Slayer of Slayers was to be their best chance at keeping evil at bay—how inexplicable yet oddly appropriate! He would drink to that.

Something was gnawing at his consciousness, some important detail he must not allow to slip away—a matter, potentially, of life and death. Then it dawned on him—

"Dawn."

Spike gave him a long look. "What 'bout the Nibblet?"

"You'll do all this…because of a promise?"

"Told you I—" Head tilted, eyes narrow, Spike started again, "What're you getting at, Watcher?"

Giles considered an oblique inquiry, then abandoned the exhausting exercise as rather unbecoming of their little tête-à-tête. "I need to ascertain that you have not transferred your previous affection for Buffy to Dawn."

"Transferred—", Spike might've blanched if vampires could. "Are you off your bloody rocker?!" Giles thought he heard a rumbling growl. "She's _fifteen_!"

"No younger than Buffy when Angel—"

"I'm no sodding pedo! That's Angel's MO. Come to think of it, I've a bloody bone to pick with you. What kind of Watcher sits back and allows my grandsire, a two-hundred-and-forty-year-old vamp with a history for kiddie kink and torture to become a fixture in the life of his teenage Slayer?"

Giles bit back a ready-made response about the soul, considering present company to not take too kindly to it. Keenly aware of his failures, he let the remark go unchallenged. Spike was cursing under his breath, something about turning over a new leaf only to be met with cynicism and distrust, while the Great Poofter, with an unproven track record, had enjoyed undue good will and—

"Shut up, Spike!" Giles said automatically. "Quit being so melodramatic. It's my duty to be certain of your intentions. If you'll stop whingeing for a second, you'll have noticed that I trusted you enough to _ask_ you face-to-face, instead of proceeding with the full presumption of your ill intent!"

"Well, thanks ever so!" grumbled the vampire unconvincingly.

"If you will set aside your indignation for a moment, I would like to set up, with your assistance, a contingency plan for the duration of my absence. And—" finally catching Spike tipping the whisky bottle over the glass in his out-stretched hand, he said, "I'm going to ask you a very serious question, and I need an honest-to-God answer: just how many times have you refilled my glass?"

With a smirk, Spike started counting, bending his fingers one at a time. When he got to his other hand, Giles groaned.

* * *

She had the distinct sensation of floating in mid air. Weightless. Guiltfree. Calm. Safe. No wind whipping her hair against her face, strands sticking to tear tracks, as on Glory's platform. No burden to sink her under, leaden limbs propping up a helpless body, equating her life with the world's death. Not enough forward momentum to be flying; too soothing to be stationary. Was she...being rocked? Cradled like a baby? … _Mom?_

As soon as the thought entered her mind, the peace shattered, and she was falling, falling…

She gasped, an arm shooting out to latch onto something, anything. "Mommy?" Her desperation came out between a shout and a sob.

"Shhh— It's me, Nibblet."

Disappointment battling relief, Dawn opened her eyes. It was pitch black.

She blinked. It took a moment for the grogginess to recede. Spike was lowering her into bed, the feeling of cold mattress pressing into her body rather unassuring. She must've fallen asleep downstairs, and he'd just carried her up. He continued to hover awkwardly, until she noticed the fistful of leather jacket in her hand and relaxed, then tried to smooth out the rumpled lapel. "Sorry," she mumbled.

"Don't worry about it."

She didn't hear him move, and in the low light, she could barely make out his outline. "Okay, creepy much? We do own lights in this house."

A soft click, and then she was shielding her eyes from the abundant light that poured over her from the nightstand, squinting at Spike. She sat up and leaned away, retreating into the shadows.

"Better?"

"Not really."

Spike dragged a chair next to her bed and sat astride it, his arms resting on the back. "You wanna talk about it?"

Dawn didn't. She was sulking and wanted to go on sulking on principle, continuing to stew in anger about being neglected and abandoned. Coming home to an empty house was one thing, returning dejectedly to the same house after a bout of pointless-because-unwitnessed teenage rebellion, only to find it still empty and careless, and now dark, triggered a new wave of hurt. Then, adding insult to injury, she had fallen asleep on the living room sofa without dinner like a most pathetic latchkey kid… Was it too much to ask for a constant, responsible adult in her life? Never mind that Spike was there now. His presence did not remove the sting she still felt so vividly. She wanted to lash out.

She went on the defensive, "What are you, Dr. Phil now?"

"Oi! I'm much better looking than that pillock!"

Dawn suppressed a giggle but couldn't stop a smile.

Spike smiled, too. "Where're the witches? Dinn't know I was s'posed to show earlier."

Dawn put on her woe-is-me look. Her bottom lip might have trembled in conjunction. "Out. Summer jobs. Wiccan meeting. Hot date. Pick one."

Spike seemed to be studying her. Tenderly, he said, "You eat yet?"

Great. Now the vampire was pitying her. "I'm not hungry." Her stomach, having not gotten that memo, growled all too disobediently at that moment.

"Right," he said, then jumped up, full of energy. "C'mon, I'll make you dinner."

Spike, the very flammable vampire who had only mastered the microwave last year without making a bloody mess, was going to cook for her? This she got to see.

"Okay," she said, forgetting that she had resolved to mope and languish. She bounced down the stairs after Spike, ignoring the smirk at his lips.

~ To Be Continued... ~

* * *

 **End Notes:**

1\. Once again, all the book titles mentioned in this chapter belong to actual books.

2\. Writing in the opposite direction of the language such that deciphering it requires the use of a mirror is a real thing, called "mirror writing". Possibly the most famous person to employ "mirror writing" on a regular basis was Leonardo da Vinci.


	7. Source of My Virtues and My Crimes

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

by feliciacraft

 _Nominated at Round 31 of the Sunnydale Memorial Awards for:_  
 _ _Best Unfinished Fic,_ _Best Characterization_ , Best Drama, Best Plot, and Best New Author._

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please. No translations _por favor_.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 7. Source of My Virtues and My Crimes**

 _That crowning object of my life,  
The end of all my toil and strife,  
Source of my virtues and my crimes,  
For which I've toiled and striven in vain,—  
But, if I fail a thousand times,  
Still I will toil and strive again._

— _from "I Dreamt Last Night" by Anne Brontë_

* * *

" _Spike!"_

 _At Dawn's cry, Doc spun to face him, just as Spike pulled himself up Glory's platform. So much for a surprise attack. The antique knife in Doc's grasp gleamed, a sharp little devil. But first things first._

 _He shot a quick glance at Dawn in a split-second assessment, otherwise pinning Doc with his focus. "Nibblet, it's gonna be okay. Jus' hang in there, alright?"_

 _She was a tear-stained mess, the poor thing, bound at the end of the platform. His presence must've helped, though, for she nodded vigorously, and tried for a smile. Spike inhaled deeply for the scent of blood. None. At least she was free of injuries—small favors and all. Instead, he was hit with a wall of fear, heady and streaked with despair._

 _It was a smell he would've relished not that long ago. It would've been an intoxicating combination had it been emanating from anyone else, and he still evil. On Dawn, it somehow made his stomach twist in a wave of nausea._

" _This won't take long," he said, needing the reassurance of his own words._

 _Doc flashed him a smile, made creepier by its serenity. "No. I don't imagine it will."_

 _With a roar and a slip of his vampire visage, Spike rushed him. Doc sidestepped with surprising agility, and Spike stumbled past, unable to halt his momentum. Before he could turn around, he felt the sharp blade of the knife embed in his back, deep, his body arching on impact. It hurt like a mother. He screamed._

 _Clenching his teeth, he reached behind him, closing his fingers around the wet hilt. A hard yank, and the pain splintered, traveling up and down his body like jolts of electricity. For a second his brain couldn't process the scream splitting his ears. Was that...him? Dawn? With a trembling hand he held up the newly gained weapon, and he decided it'd been worth it._

" _You don't come near the girl, Doc."_

 _Doc seemed to be deliberating, eyes darting between the knife and Spike's face. "I don't smell a soul anywhere on you... Why do you even care?"_

" _I made a promise to a lady."_

" _Oh. Well, I'll send the lady your regrets."_

 _Spike lunged, and Doc opened his mouth wide, his reptilian tongue shooting out to sweep Spike off his feet. Vampire speed was apparently no match for demon strength, and Spike found himself lifted up in the air, in a choke hold he couldn't break. With his feet thrashing uselessly, he slashed at the tongue with the borrowed knife, repeatedly in quick succession. Then, quicker than an eye could see, the tongue unwound itself from around Spike's neck to flick the knife into the air._

 _That gave Spike a much needed opening._

" _Not a chance, you sodding reptile!" he shouted._

 _He gripped the clammy tongue and pulled with all of his might. Doc shuffled forward with a gurgle, his footing unsteady._

" _I'd dust first!" Another pull in their tug-of-war, and Doc came into striking range. The miscalculation hit him the same moment as Doc's fists. The bastard threw a mean right hook. Who knew? With his hands full, Spike retaliated with kicks, until Doc caught his leg mid strike, and twisted hard. Spike spun to land on his back on a jagged edge of the platform, which did no favors to his knife wound._

 _Just a flesh wound, he thought, consoling himself. But he knew, from the way the wind whistled in his ears, resembling a girl's shrill cries, to the way his body struggled to right itself, with Doc still raining fists on him, that he'd gone into the fight underestimating everything, except for himself. Just a vampire. Not a superhero. This, he realized too late._

" _Poor vampire," Doc said, as if reading his mind. "Are you ready to die for your conviction?"_

 _Instead of a sharp sting, the taunt gave him a sense of clarity, the attainment of enlightenment. Nibblet was going to live. Buffy was going to live. They had to, because he wasn't. Saving the world demanded a price, and he, the odd one out, fully expendable, would make a great sacrifice. "Better believe it!" he shouted in between blows. "Are you?"_

 _With that he grabbed hold of Doc and rolled off the edge of the platform. Doc's face, twisted with shock until realization crumbled into resignation, was priceless. However briefly, Spike savored his sweet victory. Dawn would be alright._

 _He had one last thought in the free fall: that he was finally free, free of his sins, free of his cursed unlife, free of destiny's cruel joke._

 _Then the world dropped dead._

* * *

When the world regenerated itself, one sensation at a time, Spike did not trust it to open his eyes. Or maybe it was his eyes that he didn't trust. Why would a dusted vampire possess sight at all? Or need it? Or deserve it?

He clung to the scent of the Summers women, his personal piece of Paradise, blissfully drifting on the edge of consciousness. If there was a Heaven for reformed vampires, he was sure that'd be it. Until hunger, that wretched daily reminder of corporeal weakness, of condemned fate, alerted him of his True Nature, and his eyes shot open—

—and found Paradise to mirror the basement at the Summers house.

From his cot hugging one bare wall, he located his blanket, crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed. Good thing he'd remembered to pull on pajama bottoms before bed, a habit quickly formed after he'd moved into the Revello house. It'd only taken one incident to convince him of its necessity, a surprise visit from Dawn that ended with ear-piercing screaming...from the both of them. A bloody wake-up call, that was. They'd resolved never to bring it up, thank the gods, but it was still days before Dawn could look him in the eyes again.

 _Dawn's eyes, wet and swollen and trained on him as if he were her sodding salvation, greeting him atop Glory's platform—_

It was too much. Sitting up, he let his head drop, ran both hands through his hair, then interlaced them behind his neck, willing the image to fade. A hundred and forty days since Buffy jumped, and he was still assuming the brace position. Living in her house, he saw her ghost everywhere, in every cherished memory and fresh discovery, no matter how mundane: the stairs of the back porch, where they had sat, enemy to enemy, in companionable silence; a dust-bunny-infested pompom behind the spare bedding, providing a glimpse into her past life, a hint of greater sacrifices yet to come; a Christmas ornament screenprinted with an old family portrait, with Dawn bundled up into a baby burrito in the arms of a much younger, more exuberant Joyce, next to a man with a smug smile who he assumed to be Hank, and Buffy, just a wee tyke, beaming at the camera in pigtails with pink bow-shaped barrettes.

He needed a sodding exorcism to end the torment of his guilty conscience. Appealing to the ghost of the woman he failed, he said to the echo of his own voice, "Every night I save you."

For all the bloody good that did.

* * *

The egg roll was doing him a world of good.

Xander had found that his world view generally improved with the filling of his stomach, especially in the company of good friends, and even better when said friends were accommodating of his dietary preferences. Being the only male of the group had its perks, such as dining family-style. He was _not_ missing Captain Peroxide and the friendly macho posturing of trying to out-spice each other with the over-application of Sichuan hot sauce—absolutely not.

"Anyone want the last egg roll?" He made a move for it while tossing up a cursory offer. It was halfway to his mouth when the three women shook their heads in tandem. Score! "What's in it, anyway?" he said in between bites. "It's _so_ good!"

Anya had the answer ready. "MSG!"

Xander sighed in appreciation. "Delicious, deep-fried MSG…" he said in between bites, tipping the empty egg roll container just in case a sneaky egg roll was hiding under the flap.

"You love it so much," said Willow with a smirk, "if you could, I bet you'd _marry_ the egg roll!"

Anya's eyes lit up. Uh-oh. "Hey! Speaking of which—" She sat up taller and reached for Xander's hand.

"Speaking of which," Xander talked over Anya, occupying his hand by grabbing the moo shu pork, "I think I've had enough egg rolls." Anya looked murderous. He was going to pay for it later. Could they tell he was panicking? He racked his brain for a convincing segue. "And why are we having our usual Sunday Chinese, delicious though it is, at the Magic Box instead of the house, and on a Saturday night? And where is the Unevil Undead?"

Willow and Tara glanced at each other, looked away just as quickly, then put down their chopsticks in sync. That was a little creepy. Cute, but creepy.

Willow cleared her throat. "I've been thinking about life on the Hellmouth. Losing loved ones and strangers alike, year after year. Surviving demons and vampires and government conspiracies as if it was a normal part of life. Watching cemeteries expand beyond city limits. Aren't you tired of all the deaths?"

Realization hit him like a ton of bricks. "You're moving away," said Xander, the moo shu pork suddenly losing its glamour.

"On the contrary," said Willow, apparently startled that Xander had reached the wrong conclusion. "Xander, you may say that I'm all in. Uh, no more ground balls. I—I'm not going to strikeout looking. I may be a pinch hitter but I'm stepping up to the plate in the big leagues now. You'll see—it's going to be a whole new ball game!"

When nobody said anything, Willow continued, "Watch me throw the Hellmouth a curveball, hit it out of the park, and deliver a grand slam!" She thrust a small fist into the air. Tara peered at Xander and Anya in turn. Anya looked like she had added confusion to her rage. Willow waved her fist again, with extra conviction.

"Okay, Will?"

"Yeah?"

"First of all, no more baseball commentary for you." said Xander. "You're ODing on sports metaphors."

Willow gave Xander a sheepish shrug.

"Secondly, I get it. Isn't that why we rallied around the Slayer? We met her and with a collective heave of relief, we all cried, 'Buffy Anne Summers, you're our only hope!' and pledged our undying loyalty to her and her cause. We've been fighting the good fight. We've even been winning, you know, big picture view. We lost Buffy, but we haven't lost the fight."

"But we can do so much more! Evil doesn't play by the rules, why should we?" Impassioned and impatient, Willow jumped up. "We don't have to take it. We don't have to be resigned to death! We can be heroes!"

Xander leaned back. This take-charge Willow still took some getting-used-to. "Uhm, not sure with the recruitment vibe I'm getting from you. We're already living the _'Be all you can be'_ life. All we're lacking is a uniform. What're you saying, Will?"

An audible indrawn breath, then Willow dropped the canon ball: "We are going to bring Buffy back!"

* * *

No dream, no matter how vivid, was going to bring Buffy back. This, Spike understood logically. Emotionally, however, bloody logic can bugger off before he knocked it arse over teakettle with a mean left hook. He willed the lingering dream to scarper, while simultaneous cravings battled for his attention. He needed a smoke to occupy his fidgeting fingers. A pint of blood to ease his hunger, tame his bloodthirst. A half bottle of top-shelf scotch, not to ring in oblivion—no, he'd need five times that, easy—but just enough to dull the longing for a certain dead Slayer, like cocooning a wicked blade with a pile of fluffy little cotton balls. He had the house to himself—Dawn was staying at Janice's for the weekend, and the witches were God-knows-where, so he could finally be himself, which was apparently succumbing to vices. Some vampire he was, to be bound by his physical frailties. Or was it his humanity?

The white hats always took it for granted, how he hastened to dance to their every tune, as if being a vampire was optional, and behaving according to his nature merely a lifestyle _choice_. They never appreciated how isolating it was for him to betray his own kind, how much sheer willpower it took to get him to walk side-by-side with those happy meals on legs, even if he was muzzled by the chip, even as he saw them as brothers and sisters in arms. Right, he'd like to clock a timer on how long Xander would last carrying out his daily activities with a box of pizza alongside him before he'd cave in and devour the whole thing, social norms be damned.

Spike put the brakes on the brooding. He was no bloody ponce. The chip was forced on him by the Initiative, but throwing his lot in with the Slayer, that was on his own head. He'd told the Watcher that he'd remain in Sunnydale, looking after Dawn, taking up the slaying. That was exactly what he planned to do, even if it meant playing house with the humans. Fortunately for him, no new Slayer had been called to replace Buffy in guarding over the Hellmouth, disappointing sodding Quentin Travers. Well, good. Spike was relieved to have no baby Slayer dog his steps, cramp his style. No new Watcher to win over, to convince that he was on the side of Light.

Truth be told, the Scoobies seemed to accept him fine, since it had been Buffy who had handpicked him for Dawn's protection. They way they acted, it was as if the Scoobies had canonized her to sainthood. In the early days following her demise, Buffy's words had been quoted like true gospel. The endorsement from Giles had put the last nail in the coffin of his domestication. He wasn't going to brood about how much of their acceptance was due to necessity—someone had to look after Dawn, to help keep up the ruse that Buffy was still alive and kicking her spinning crescent kicks. The bot had been handy for slaying as they watched each other's back, but despite Red's best effort, the bot's babysitting programming had been woefully inadequate. The combination of her lack of cooking aptitude and her propensity for pyrotechnics was second only to the Slayer's own. Spike would rather chance setting his hand on fire than risk the bot almost burning down the house. Again.

Without Buffy, Red took over the group in the power vacuum. There were bits of uncertainty here and there, of discussions and objections, but with each passing day Red's status as interim leader solidified more. Pretty soon it was taken as read. Spike and Willow were never impolite to each other, but by tacit agreement, gave each other a wide berth. Just as well.

Spike gave the future a passing thought. Not sure how much further their lot could keep up the ruse, but for as long as he could get away with it, he was going to see to it that Dawn had someone watching over her. A reformed vampire amounted to piss poor material for a homemaker, but they'd muddle through, wouldn't they? 'Course he was not going to be a gormless git and sponge off the Summers savings, or what was left of it. Right. No bloody chance of him going corporate and turning into a nine-to-fiver, but that didn't mean he couldn't get himself gainfully employed while keeping strictly to the straight and narrow.

The filtered sunlight through the basement window was making him drowsy. Without Dawn to occupy his time, he fell back into bed, thinking of Buffy as he always did before letting his eyelids droop, his breathing ease. Blood and booze and smokes could wait. Now, he hoped for a more pleasant dream.

~ To Be Continued... ~


	8. Boldness Be My Friend

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

by feliciacraft

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please. No translations _por favor_.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 8. Boldness Be My Friend**

 _Boldness be my friend!  
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!  
_— _William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, Act I. Scene VI._

* * *

Bad. Very bad. Very, _very_ bad!

Anya mentally reprimanded the idea while glowering at Willow. That usually worked with misbehaving puppies.

Beside her, Xander had gone completely still, from what Anya hoped to be shock instead of enchantment.

"What?" Xander's voice was barely a whisper.

Willow seemed to relish the reaction she'd engendered. She beamed like a student who'd been handed an exam she knew she could ace—in other words, like the same old gloating Willow. "Bring Buffy back," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "That'd get us out of the pickle we're in!"

Anya couldn't find her voice. The first law of magic was, "Thou shalt not kill," because the original Coven had not anticipated a witch stupid enough to attempt a resurrection, which would've been the zeroth law. Long misunderstood by mortals, the first law was less concerned with right and wrong than with respecting the balance in Nature. Good and evil, yin and yang, life and death—the fate of the universe was precariously guarded, kept safe, by the pull of such opposite but equal forces. Not to mention that some things were final, and sacred, and best left the hell alone.

A thousand plus years as a vengeance demon and Anya knew this: the return policy on lives taken summed up to a complete and total nil. It had always been far easier to lose a life then to gain one. (Based on that alone, Anya knew that whoever thought that the Powers That Be were benevolent was naïve and due for a rude awakening.) People were born, people died, end of story. The circle of life, from the perspective of any one human, was strictly a one-way street. Resurrections were cosmic no-no's.

Case in point: the last time a human resurrection took place, possibly while the Powers That Be took a catnap, it resulted in a whole new religion, forever altering the course of human history, triggering countless bloodbaths and unending turmoil in the guise of holy decrees. One man's life, stolen from the Powers That Be during a time of tumult, had to be repaid in tens of thousands. The consequences of the resurrection of Buffy Summers, a mystically-empowered warrior, in a long line of such prophesied individuals whose activation depended on the death of the previous champion, would be too grave to consider.

Anya shuddered. "You can't be serious!" she blurted out, voice cracking, "There are forces you simply don't mess with!"

Willow visibly bristled at that, then seemed to have thought better of it, and settled on a too-saccharine smile. It was an odd thing to observe, like the evolution of changing weather patterns.

"I'm sorry you lost your powers, Anya," chirped Willow, though she didn't look the part, didn't even bother to pretend. "But I know what I'm doing. I'm expert research girl—I always dot my i's and cross my t's." She looked to Tara and Xander in turn, as if for corroboration.

Anya's hand fidgeted up to her bare neck, where for over a millennium hung the _Symbol of Anyanka_ , the pendant housing her demonic power. She prided herself on her successful assimilation to boring, fragile human life, but she was not going to pretend that she didn't miss her powers, powers that ignorant _children_ like Willow could never fathom, let alone possess.

"It's not just the research. You're dabbling in powers you don't understand, with consequences you clearly haven't considered."

"Huh," Willow nodded, seemingly receptive to the idea. Disaster averted? Anya's hopes were dashed when Willow said, "I didn't know you were a practiced witch. I've never seen you at the Wiccan meetings. Why don't you contribute a useful idea instead of booing other people's?"

How dare she! Biting sarcasm and bitter criticism was her forte! "Hey! That's not fair!"

Xander was at least on her side. "Now, just a minute, Willow," he began, demonstrating finally that his blind spot when it came to Willow was not unbounded.

It was the thought that counted, but as a modern woman, a business owner no less, Anya was no damsel in distress. She told Xander as much, "I could fight my own battles, Xander."

Xander gestured that he was "hands off," and she turned to Tara, who usually championed Willow's causes. "You OK with this? Don't you think it's wrong? What about the Wiccan code?"

Tara seemed to shrink back from the implied accusations, as if stung. She drew a shaky breath, but when she spoke, her words were resolute and steady. "Everything about this is wrong. Interfering with the natural order of things is wrong. Using magic for personal reasons is wrong. Reversing a lifecycle is wrong."

"Then why—?"

"Why would I go along with the plan?" she shifted uncomfortably, as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Because Buffy didn't die a natural cause. Because evil winning over good is perverse. Because sometimes, a healthy respect for rules means breaking them, with purpose."

That last one caught Anya by surprise. Tara—sweet, innocent Tara, whose aura probably approximated a double rainbow, perceived the world in gradations, replete with ambiguities? Then again, remembered Anya, Tara wasn't all innocent, was she? She'd lived most of her life believing herself to be a demon outcast in a human world. That did things to a person's psyche. Anya wasn't sure she wanted to know how Tara came to live by that last rule. Willow, on the other hand, smiled appreciatively at her sweetie, as if Tara's temporary disregard for the rules invalidated them wholesale.

"Okay, so you're respectfully shouting 'No!' to the rules. How do you even know that Buffy's in a hell dimension?"

Tara floundered, and Willow tamed an eyeroll-in-progress, which Anya caught anyway. How many catfights had she witnessed in her time? Willow was not nearly subtle enough with her contemptuous dismissal.

"She died diving into a portal into Glory's home sweet home, or have you already forgotten?"

How could she? The head injury she'd sustained trying to shield Xander from harm had served as an instant recall for days, even with maximum-strength painkillers. Since then, with Buffy's death plunging all of them into shellshock and mourning, there had been no real chance of escaping those dreadful memories. Plenty of denial across the board, sure, but forgetting? As Xander would say: no way, no how.

Anya's face must have reflected some of the horror that crossed her mind, for Willow deflated in front of everyone, her tone softening as she said, seemingly with effort, "I just—I just want things to go back to the way they were before."

"Oh, Willow." Anya couldn't help it. She tried to project a lofty judgemental tenacity, but felt herself unclench despite her resolve. How many times had she heard that very line?

All the time in her previous life, wronged women had eagerly poured out their shattered little hearts to her, about reneged engagements, sweet-talking blaggard suitors, lying, cheating, waste-of-space husbands, and child-support payment-skipping ex's. Vengeance had been the ultimate equalizer, and those seeking payback had come to her from all walks of life, dressed to match: in lavish Medieval surcoats with overflowing Oriental silk, modest linen cloaks overlaid with simple, well-worn aprons, imported Italian pantsuits expertly starched and pressed, or skimpy party dresses reeking of cheap cologne. She recalled the lovely silk dresses fondly, though perhaps not the way they'd been stained by their owners' tears and that distinct odor of bitter disillusionment.

The situation had never changed: the crime was sometimes trivial, sometimes atrocious, but the pain had always been genuine, the denial always the same. The truth invariably hurt, too, as Anya knew well, but it had been her job to give it to them straight. She'd done her best to put the poor dears at ease first, of course. She'd demanded from herself nothing short of perfect professionalism. They'd bond over homemade tea, boutique coffee, beer straight from the keg, and that one time, way too many Tequila shots from a well-tipped bartender (on which occasion joining her mark had turned out to be a personal mistake for Anya)...

She would offer a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on, a pat on the back, a drink for luck (though no more for Tequila Chick, bartender!), as the perfect combination of a good sister who watched out for their best interest, the kindred friend who offered unwavering support, and the Fairy Godmother of their dreams.

At the end of the day, however, she hadn't been able to—even with her D'Hoffryn-sanctioned powers, even at the peak of her abilities—make things the way they used to be. She sold the alternative—a vengeance wish—and sold it well (oh, did she ever!), not that most of the women needed more than a slight nudge to take the plunge. But even then, she had known that it wasn't what the women had wanted, deep down. What they'd wanted was impossible.

Case in point: Buffy was dead. (She seemed to have taken a lot of happiness with her, thought Anya, even though it had already been in short supply in this world.) The universe had moved on. Buffy would never _be_ again. Was it really that difficult a concept for humans to grasp? Were they really so insignificant that they couldn't see beyond their own pain to the perspective of greater cosmic forces at play?

She broke it to Willow with the bluntness of a thousand years of vengence practice, trying to snap her out of this streak of melodramatic sentimentality. "You know I don't sugarcoat, Willow. Things will never go back to the way they were before. Buffy is dead—a worthy, Slayer's death, and we need to move on, and live, and honor her memory."

But Willow wasn't interested in perspective. She fought the harsh reality in front of her, willfully cocooning herself into an alternate world where the loss of Buffy could not be overcome, must not be withstood—even disregarding Tara's hand on her arm that attempted to physically if not verbally hold her back.

"No, you listen, all of you! A couple of years ago, I would've agreed with you—resurrection spells would've been too complex, too tricky for timid, little Willow. I was uncertain, uncommitted, uninspired, and untested. But I've come a long way.

"I've been the Slayer's right-hand witch, the group's go-to spellmaster. I've single-handedly held off an entire army, and faced off with a hell god and lived to tell the tale. I can merge energies from multiple people without causing injury, and reverse an unknown curse to undo specific damage." Here she looked in turn at Xander, Tara, and Anya, and pleaded, "I can do this: save Buffy. She was my best friend, and she didn't deserve to die in a hell dimension."

She looked away for a second, and when she spoke again, her voice was hard, and swelling with resolve. "I can save her—I _know_ I can, but not by myself, not without your help. Will you help me? Will you help Buffy? Please?"

It was the final "please" that did it.

Anya felt cornered. If she had an Achilles' heel, it was a desperate woman in need of assistance. Call it an occupational hazard, but after a few hundred years, it had became a full-blown, automatic—sometimes even preemptive—response. Within ten paces of a woman desperate for vengeance, her eyes would tear up, her hands would itch, her nose would tingle. After a thousand years, it had become a full-body experience; even her toes were twitchy with anticipation. Like seasonal allergies, except year-round.

Anya might be without her powers, but not without her heart, and whatever was left of her demonic sixth sense could feel the rage and pain that radiated from Willow. She was clearly hungry for Buffy's revenge, which at least would be justified. Buffy had been Heaven's Chosen One, whose life and death had been shrouded in mysticism to begin with. Could she be an exception to the rule of magic?

Sweet Tara, who had probably never hurt a fly and had been predisposed to follow Willow to Magicland's equivalent of the end of the world, before the latter even opened her eloquent mouth to drum up support, was the first to pledge her allegiance. No surprises there. With a coy tug on their linked hands, she said to Willow, "You gave me back my mind and my life, after Glory tried to destroy me. I've seen how you use magic to heal, to restore. I'll help you save Buffy."

Willow smiled, with a lover's intensity, but a mourner's kindness. As if someone had just offered her condolences at a funeral. Anya wondered if she hadn't been a bit too harsh on Willow. Maybe it would all work out. Judging by how big a group of misfits they were, Heaven knows they couldn't possibly have survived Sunnydale thanks to their own competency in fighting demons. Maybe the Powers That Be really did favor the Slayer and those in her circle?

"Xander?" Willow prompted, switching off her sweetheart smile to one full of expectancy. It was clearly roll call time.

"Well, you know." Xander waved with perfect ambiguity, a floppy upward motion that could've just as easily been a dismissal as a surrender. He looked to Willow, then to Anya, as if caught between a rock and a hard place. "It's magic, and, you know." This time he threw up both arms, looking unwilling to elaborate, to commit, as if it were an obvious trick question.

Anya took pity on him. "Xander, it's okay," she said gently. "I get it."

That opened the floodgate. All of a sudden words were spilling out of him. "I can't not help, Anya. It's the Buffster. I don't understand magic—it's all stinky herbs, abracadabra, poof, _voila_! But if there's the slightest chance of saving her from a fate worse than death, of bringing her back from some God-forsaken hell dimension of torture, I can't be Switzerland. I'd already chosen, back in high school. I can't desert her now. I'm all in."

What do you say to that? Except to kiss him silly? So she did. "This is why I love you, Xander Harris," she said with a trembling lower lip, getting emotional. "You can be real dumb sometimes, but you're a loyal friend and a steadfast fighter. And you rock my world, you silly human. If you're in, I'm in."

She leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, "I love you. I don't want irreconcilable differences between us. Did you know? The great state of California consider those as legal grounds for divorce."

Xander flashed her an awkward smile, then stole glances at Willow and Tara, who were busy pretending not to be watching, all three of them red in the face. Which was both stupid and inconvenient. Humans got flustered by the smallest gestures of PDA, and they thought _demons_ were the ones who couldn't love.

"Wait." Xander's brow creased. "Did you say 'real dumb'?"

"I said 'I love you!'" answered Anya sweetly.

"I love you, too!" came Xander's automatic response, without a second's hesitation. Good boy.

Anya forced herself to relax. The rest of the group had moved onto idle chatter, and Xander was doing another round of going through the empty takeover containers. Oh, pleasantly-shaped Xander, who as a rule left no Chinese food behind. It was as if he had a bottomless stomach, and she'd wished that particular condition on one of her victims before to know how unpleasant that was.

Speaking of unpleasant, Anya considered the current state of mess. They were to have a resurrection on their hands. If she had a tail, it'd be twitching now. On the other hand, this was Sunnydale, surely it was no stranger than some of the freak incidents that routinely plagued their lives. There was _no_ way such rousing speech-making and almost-crying and uncomfortable displays of friendship and support and love could lead to the worst mistake of their generation.

Right?

~ To Be Continued... ~


	9. Long Days of Labour

**Edge of Sorrow, Heart of Truth**

by feliciacraft

* * *

Distribution: No posting elsewhere without express permission please. No translations _por favor_.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

 **Chapter 9. Long Days of Labour, and Nights Devoid of Ease**

Title is taken from the poem "The Day is Done" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in which the narrator says:

Come, read to me some poem,  
Some simple and heartfelt lay,  
That shall soothe this restless feeling,  
And banish the thoughts of day.

Read from some humbler poet,  
Whose songs gushed from his heart,  
As showers from the clouds of summer,  
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through **long days of labour,  
And nights devoid of ease**,  
Still heard in his soul the music  
Of wonderful melodies.

* * *

It was a rare Friday evening to find Dawn at Revello Drive, slaving away at her homework. To optimize for throughput she had devised a time-saving system of "divide and conquer." After assigning Spike the American Lit book report (by dangling the promise for a plate of the Bronze's spicy wings), she was currently tackling Geometry.

"What's the rush, Niblet?" came Spike's indolent voice from the vicinity of the TV. Over the buildup of an intense flourish of music, a woman screamed. Something roared back, an inhuman sound, poorly done. Dawn marched over to the sofa on which Spike sprawled like a star-fish, grabbed the remote from his outstretched hand in one fluid motion, and firmly hit _power_. The black-and-white horror flick from TNT's _Friday Night Screamathon_ died with a flash and a whimper.

"Oi! I was watching that! Got all weekend, haven't we?"

"Nuh-uh." Dawn pressed _The Great Gatsby_ into Spike's hand, still outstretched but newly remote-free. "Willow said I could sleep over at Janice's tomorrow night if I get all my homework done tonight. Bet she didn't anticipate my secret weapon." She shot him a meaningful look.

"Ya like her that much? Thought we were gonna continue broadening your comedic horizon with _Monty Python's Life of Brian_."

Dawn thought he almost sounded hurt. Silly vampire with the silly insecurity. She resumed her seat at the dining table, and turned the page to the next Geometry problem. "Oh, uhm, rain check? Willow surprised me with the sleep-over arrangement! Said that if I keep my grades up, there'd be more rewards. This is just a preview."

There was a delayed "Huh" from the living room, followed by silence. Spike being silent was Conspicuous with a capital C. Dawn could practically hear the gears grinding in his undead head.

Unable to resist, she craned her neck until the back of said cranium came into view above the sofa. "What?" she asked. "You think this is some conspiracy to get me out of the house for the weekend?"

He turned and their gaze connected for a second, then both of them burst out laughing. Dawn snorted.

"You've watched too many episodes of the _X-Files_ , Bit! Bloody conspiracy theory. Nice of Red to take an interest in you for a change."

"Hmm." Dawn switched her attention to the next homework problem. Vertices of an octahedron. Eight. No. Six?

With both of them busy at work, the house fell silent. For a while, there was only the sound of a page turning every so often from him, and that of pencil scribbling on paper from her.

A sudden rustling, crisp and moving like a projectile, roused Dawn out of her concentration. Her head swimming with inverse functions, she barely registered a book flying across the living room to bounce off the wall with a dull thud, and Spike storming out the back door, his coat swishing behind.

"Hey! Was that _my_ book?" She craned her neck to yell at him. All she got in response was the slam of the door.

"Melodramatic much?" Mumbling, she tiptoed to the book, her curiosity getting the better of her.

The book lay innocently on the floor, face down, the pages fanned out like a mess of leaves. _The Great Gatsby_ from her American Lit class, just as she'd thought. "Huh," Dawn said to no one in particular, "Not everyone digs Fitzgerald's style, but I've never seen _that_ reaction before."

Spike was a destructive reader, always curling pages, folding dog ears, leaving cryptic notes and cigarette ashes behind, striking through the occasional typo with decisiveness and penning in the error-free word with finality. "I'm not a bloody poncy book collector," he'd said when Dawn had called him out on it. He'd had the nerve to give _her_ a lecture, after damaging school property. "A properly read book ought to look read, studied, pored over, _lived_. Not in unappreciated, untouched, sodding _mint_ condition." He'd practically spat out the word "mint" like the worst offense imaginable.

So it was easy to track down where he'd left off. Especially—Dawn happened on it and snickered—as the page was slightly wrinkly, with damp ovals here and there. "Ugh, you'd better not have _cried_ all over my book!" she shouted teasingly in the direction of the back door, then said under her breath, "Dork."

Hopping up a bar stool, she traced a finger over one vague oval, then scanned the passage underneath:

 _So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously—eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand._

Dawn's heart thumped violently, and with the book tightly clutched in her hands—her knuckles white from effort—the words on the page jumped in sync with her pulse. She skipped ahead, leaping over phrases and whole sections, catching bits and pieces that grabbed her:

 _He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretenses...He had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe...that he was fully able to take care of her._

 _...He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail….He felt married to her, that was all._

"Oh. My. God!" She flew through the back door, knocking the bar stool over in the process, and sending the screen door into a brutal collision with the wall. With a trembling index finger inches from Spike's nose, she threw down her trump card of an accusation: "You...you slept with Buffy!"

From his perch on the top step, Spike blew out a smoke ring, and cast her a sideways glance. It could almost be called languid, as collected as a cool cat. Which, because Dawn knew better, meant that he was feeling anything but. "Suss that out all on your own, did ya?"

Spun, she searched her memories. Buffy was never good at keeping secrets; there'd be tell-tale signs. How had she managed to keep _this_ under the covers? "But...when?"

He took a long drag from his death stick, then held his breath for the longest time, apparently lost in thought. And Dawn was struck by the fact that even now, mere memories of Buffy took his breath away, literally. When he looked up again with a glint in his eye, Dawn knew he'd been reliving a treasured piece of memory. His face was a distortion of bliss layered with despair.

She thought he'd spill the beans to her sympathetic ear then. It wasn't like he had many friends to whom he could pour his heart out.

But all he said was, "Not the kiss-and-tell type, Bit."

Dawn sank down next to him, searching his face for clues. "You must miss her." Well, duh, so she hastened to clarify, rather lamely, "Like, a lot. _A lot_ a lot."

The light was fading, something that her fabricated memory of years of Sunnydale living compelled her to retreat inside for safety before day fell to night. Behind her was an entire vacant house furnished with no less than a dozen comfy chairs and sofas, yet she was cozying up to a chain-smoking chipped vampire on a back porch step, struggling with an offer of sympathy for, morbidly enough, the death of _her_ sister. Her life was total absurd-o-rama.

Spike, on the other hand, was all distracted action with no hint of rush: flicking off the stub, patting down pockets for his Zippo, lighting up a fresh one, then crushing the empty pack into a ball—a series of uncomplicated moves all carried out with expert efficiency that together, still managed to take a while. Finally, he ran out of things to do.

"Well?" she prompted again, very softly. It was really for his sake, because he looked like whatever had caught in his throat was swelling rapidly.

His breath hitched as he said, "Desperately." He wouldn't meet her eye.

Something in his rigid body language told her he preferred to prop up the pretense on that last shred of dignity, so instead of giving him a hug, she awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. He neither flinched nor encouraged her, a dying cigarette dangling, unappreciated, between his fingers.

But the tension was gone from his jaw, and, well, the worn leather, surprisingly soft under her palm, felt oddly comforting.

There was hardly any view from the back porch, but they sat there, side by side, in companionable silence, until the rising moon, just a sliver shy of a full one, cast their merged shadow on the steps.

* * *

For a few seconds after Xander delivered his practiced plea for help there was only the sound of rhythmic clicking as Anya leafed through a stack of hard plastic containers the size of sliced bread, in which suspended bits of yellow and orange and pink, like fishing flies. What the heck? Xander skimmed the billing statement paperclipped to the front of the box: toucan feathers. He shook his head. This magics thing is clearly for the birds.

The sound cut out abruptly as Anya's fingers got to the end of the pile. She scribbled something in her notebook, then shot Xander a hard look. Not a good sign. He tried on his most innocent look and awaited the verdict.

"That's a really big favor you're asking, Xander. When did you become Willow's errand boy?"

He ignored the intentionally incendiary remark. He was a man with a mission. No way was he getting distracted. "Oh, come on, it's just one little phone call. Let Undead Boy play retriever with a demonic object, far away from here. Just for a couple of nights. What's the big?"

Anya had moved onto the next item on the inventory shelf, kneeling down to count a tray of glass jars of a milky lavender blue liquid. He sat down on his haunches next to her, and sloshed a jar with interest. The liquid reminded him of the blueberry milkshake he'd had with his burger for lunch, except that its consistency ran much thinner than milkshake. Another mystery item in the Magic Box's storage room.

" _What's the big?_ " Anya's voice rose an octave. She put the jar down with a crisp "clink". "The _big_ is my professional reputation! I'm dealing in magics supplies here. I can't afford to have my clientele think I don't know the difference between a Tak horn and an elephant tusk. Neither do I misfill my orders. You don't get repeat customers by being sloppy. You don't get _new_ customers if you develop a reputation for being sloppy. Not to mention components for dark magic like the Tak horn are well out of the the Magic Box's target demographic." Her tone was dripping with disdain, as if a customer not properly catalogued would be a terrible sin and a mishandled shipment a crime punishable by death.

She stood up and scribbled in her notebook again, not bothering to look up as she said, "You can play messenger boy back to Willow. Getting Spike out of the way for the spell...she needs a better lie. I will not be a part of your _incompetent_ deception. I'm good at what I do, _always_." She shot an icy look to Xander, clearly lumping him in with the labeling of incompetence.

There was no time to circle back to Willow, which would keep this to-do item from getting to-done. Keep Xander in the uncomfortable role of a ping-pong ball a little longer. A role he didn't particularly relish. He tossed the jar from one hand to the other, then back again. Fidgeting helped him think.

"How 'bout this. _We_ come up with a new excuse, you and me. We're _Team Xanya_."

Anya chewed on her lower lip, and Xander wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her silly. Forget about the whole resurrection business, at least for a while.

"OK," said Anya, her tone cautious. "But only because _Team Ander_ would sound stupid."

Score! Xander relaxed, tossing the jar high in the air with a flip of his hand. The extra energy sent it somersaulting, glistening pretty as a jewel as it caught a ray of the sunlight from the back window.

"And quit playing with the container of horseshoe crab blood. It's very expensive."

Xander's stomach did a turn, much like the glass jar fast on its descent. The jar hit his hands hard, and carried the momentum forward as he instinctively clasped it tight against his chest. It knocked him back. The upside? It jolted loose the rising lump in his throat, and forced back down the wave of nausea.

Quick reflexes? Check. Stomach for magics? Not so much.

* * *

Inhale. Exhale.

Willow was ready. Not kinda ready. Not ready-ish. Ready like the sun was ready to rise and set, like the moon was ready to wane and wax. She flexed her fingers, shaping the air with intent, and felt her Wiccan power course through her veins. Produced by nature, backed by life, drawn from within, and shaped into pinpoint focus via her will. All that power, as old as the universe, just free for the taking. It felt kind of heady. Ready and heady...and rhymey. Uh-oh.

Inhale. Exhale.

She was ready. She was born ready.

Timid, shy, geeky, helpless—that was her once upon a time, going along with the abuses of the world quietly, believing (in a secular sense) that the meek would inherit the earth. Now that she wielded the power, she was going to fight back, make things better, save the world. She might not have been chosen, but who said you had to be handed your destiny? If her destiny wanted to play a game of tag with her, then tag it was. Erh, or something like that.

Point was, Willow was ready to shine like a no-longer hidden jewel. She was going to impress everyone, big time. How did the Slayer prophecy go again? _Into every generation a slayer is born: one girl in all the world, a chosen one._ Prophesied, set down and passed from generation to generation. Giles would recite the words like a prayer, sacred, ever-fixed, his voice gentle and smooth, as if afraid to disturb the underlying power.

But it was about to change. And _she_ was about to change it. To turn the table on Fate by taking it by its demon horns—because judging by its actions? _Definitely_ demon—and by embracing _her_ gift, and daring to challenge the prophecy, the myth:

Into this generation a slayer would be _resurrected_ , relinquished by Death: one girl in all the world, _loved_ above all, such that her friends would rescue her soul from another dimension and restore her upon the land of the living. Buffy Anne Summers was the Slayer before, and _would_ be the Slayer again. Ha, take that, erh, Death!

And grinning widely, Willow wondered how she herself would be remembered by the Watchers Council. _From one generation to the next, the Slayer saved the world. Only one legendary, courageous witch by the name of Willow Rosenberg, has ever saved the Slayer by resurrection. Celebrated by covens worldwide, she—_

"Personal delivery for one Willow Rosenberg! Veggie Delight, no onion." Tara breezed into the training room at the back of Magic Box, interrupting Willow's reverie. The newcomer balanced sagging paper plates of pizza in one hand, two cans of root beer in the other.

The warm aroma of cheesy goodness mingled with the sweet perfume that was _Tara_ , awakening her hunger. In more ways than one.

Mmm, heady and bready. And still rhymey.

Dismissing her rhyme-o-rama mind, Willow relieved Tara of the soda cans. "Oh, delivery girl, I-I forgot my purse. However will I pay you?"

"Weeell." Eyes twinkling, Tara sank down on the floor mat opposite Willow, mirroring her lotus pose. She playfully ran a calculating eye up and down Willow. "I also accept kisses. From the right person. But you'd better be one heck of a generous tipper."

Willow switched onto her knees and pulled Tara in for a long kiss. Soft lips. Warm breath. Willow's stomach stopped doing its impression of the roller-coaster that had made her green with nausea at age ten. It made sense that Tara would calm her pre-spell jitters better than meditation.

They parted after a long moment.

"Was that generous?" Willow rested her forehead on Tara's.

"Mmm, very."

Willow reached to uncover the somewhat smooshed plate of pizza, but Tara's lips found hers again.

"You forgot"—Tara whispered, a bit breathless—"your change."

"Keep it," Willow kissed her back.

A squeal startled both of them, and they turned, in sync, to see Anya beaming from the doorway. Over the pizza boxes and other things stacked high in her arms, her eyes were huge.

"Oooh! I know this game! Xander's fond of it as well!" she said eagerly, as if thrilled to finally find common ground with Willow. "Except he doesn't accept kisses as alternative method of payment. He only accepts—"

"And with that"—Xander appeared on her heels, swinging water bottles and soda cans, as if resigned—"we're back on the doorstep of TMI."

Tara smiled politely and Willow picked up a slice of Veggie Delight to conceal a smirk.

"Oh, please," Anya waived away Xander's caution like shooing away an unwelcome trespasser. "I don't buy this blushing bride act of yours. You're never shy when you ask for—"

"Pizza!" Xander interjected. "I mean"—he coughed—"we brought you the rest of it."

Anya didn't miss a beat, as if Xander had never interrupted her. "Pizza _s_ , plural. Left unchallenged, Xander would overeat past the obvious maximum capacity of his stomach. Then beg for tummy rubs for the rest of the evening."

Tara cleared her throat, disguising a giggle.

"And therein lies your mistake," said Xander, straight-faced. "You're reinforcing my overeating by rewarding me with tummy rubs."

"Huh." That got Anya thinking and therefore no longer talking, to Xander's noticeable relief.

He dropped down onto the mat. After securing two slices of pizza and folding them topping side to topping side into a makeshift calzone, he nodded at Willow. "How you holdin' up?"

"Super!" Willow chirped. Xander raised one eyebrow.

"Super duper?" she tried again. Now twice as convincing! Xander's other eyebrow joined its twin.

"Sweetie," said Tara in that covert tip-off tone she used when whispering to Willow that her bra straps were showing, "you're rhyming."

She hadn't realized that she had a tell. Good thing she didn't play poker.

Xander pulled out Willow's open notebook from under one of the pizza boxes. Mouth full of pizza, he squinted at a line and read, "The one I seek I do not fear—"

"Better fear the witch who came up with that spell!" Willow yanked the notebook out of Xander's hand and gave him a stern look. " _Never_ recite spells with your mouth full. I learned that the hard way." She gave it a second thought and amended, "In fact, Xander, for you, never recite spells, period."

"Hey!" Xander protested, though he looked uncertain. "I thought it was a poem, what with your natural talent at rhyming."

"It's a loose translation of an ancient resurrection spell," Willow explained, eager to share a fascinating aspect of magic. "The Latin source was in verse form. I emulated the rhythm of the spell in English to retain the energy of the original." She took a bite out of her pizza and continued, "Because magic isn't chemistry, and poetry is not about meaning, you have to strive for the spirit for the spell. Power is not a formula derived from the words of the spell. The words are merely a conduit for your will. The funny thing about translation is"—she couldn't help chuckling—"novices _always_ mistake verbatim for accuracy, and the potency ends up getting lost in the translation."

Xander looked like he might need a translator to decode Willow's explanation. "You're clearly no novice, oh Master Willow." He thought for a moment, then turned to Tara. "Does that make you the apprentice?" With a funny voice he continued, "'Always two there are, no more, no less.'"

Huh? She exchanged a look with Tara, who shrugged; no idea.

"Are you quoting some pop culture thing I have no way of being familiar with?" Anya piped up, her tone defensive. Still overly sensitive to innocent acts of exclusion. That-a-demon-turned-girl!

Xander scowled at each of them in turn, then muttered in defeat, "I am _so_ under-appreciated. I need friends who _get_ my jokes."

With an exaggerated sigh, he turned back to Willow. "You all set?"

Time to come clean. "More or less." She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to keep her voice light and her tone even as she said, "Just need a little blood from each of you."

* * *

The unpleasant business of asking her friends for their blood now out of the way, Willow unravelled a thread at a corner of the sandbag and let the content pour out into a wide circle of protection large enough to fit four people inside. She sat down in the center to clear her mind and bless the space. Within the enclosure of the circle, the vibrations of the background energy faded from a shrill to a low hum in her ears. Low enough to tune out with a bit of concentration.

Low enough that bits of a hushed conversation made their way into her ears.

"Quit picking at it, Xander." Anya's voice. It continued, "I'm not going to band-aid your finger a third time."

"Did you know this spell called for blood? _Human_ blood?" Xander spat out the last two words, as if he found even the words themselves distasteful.

Anya tut-tutted. "It was barely a trickle. Be thankful that it didn't ask a life for a life. And then some. Buffy was more warrior than all of us put together, and magic usually requires an equal exchange…" Her voice trailed off.

Xander continued, his voice as shaky as before, "I thought we were only here for moral support. I was prepared for the usual stinkin' herbs flumadiddle. You know, while not exactly top-shelf entertainment, magic can be pretty cool. But holy Las Vegas Batman, this is a far cry from Siegfried & Roy."

"You know I'm a little thin on American pop culture references." Anya sounded as if she was pouting. "I don't know how to comfort you when you stop making sense."

Willow willed herself to stop listening. She couldn't afford to question the spell, or the ritual, or the power coursing through her veins. Not now. Not after everything.

All day long she'd been drawing energy from the earth into her reserve, and with every pull the world had responded with a ready give. She had the distinct impression that while she prepared herself for the incantation, the incantation prepared for _her_. The elements yielded. The powers flowed into her like rivers to the sea.

A finality hit her sixth sense. This was meant to be. She was merely the conduit.

Resurrecting Buffy was destiny.

Willow couldn't see the sun through the square of frosted window, but she knew with mystical certainty that it was near sunset. She wondered briefly if it was what vampires felt, the call of the night, the surge of vitality. A full moon would rise tonight, marking the optimal time for rituals requiring significant mojo. She needed to seize that moment of transition, when the dominant energy of the sun yielded to the forces of darkness once again, when white magic and black magic converged to bend the division between worlds.

When Buffy's spirit might be called to cross over the boundary between life and death, against the natural current, and come home.

She nodded to Tara, who began setting four candles aflame and positioning them to each direction of Willow. The white tapers gave off a pale, flickering illumination, throwing everything into contorted relief. Tara's lovely face was a study of contrast in the candlelight, all wavering highlights and shadows. It took Willow a moment to realize that Tara was nervous, her body quivering in the quivering candlelight.

"Baby, you okay?" Willow reached out to put an arm around Tara. Her fingers grazed something hard and lumpy, something hidden in Tara's jacket pocket. It felt like…

Like the satchel Tara routinely used to carry ingredients for a spell-to-go. Lumpy because it was filled.

As if struck, Willow's hand shrank back. She stared at her girlfriend, suddenly tongue-tied. Tara had come tonight prepared to perform magic, a purpose she had concealed from everyone. But...why? Willow would be doing the spell tonight. It was _her_ spell, and not to be territorial about it, but she'd been the one to locate the original incantation, translate it, piece together the ingredient list, and risk her neck to obtain every item on the list. Not to mention, she was the one with the power. She could feel the magic crackle between her fingers, just below the surface, ready to be channeled and directed via her focus.

Tara caught Willow's retreating hand and laced their fingers together. "Just nerves." She smiled reassuringly. "I don't want you to worry about a thing."

Tara was right, of course. The power of magic relied on faith. On conviction. On will. A flicker of doubt could undermine her ability to successfully perform the spell. Magic was a self-fulfilling prophecy, for both believers and nonbelievers alike.

But what had Tara planned? Why hadn't she shared it with her? Willow couldn't dismiss the sense of unease that had crept into her mind like a...creeping thing, wiggling deeper, clawing at her consciousness to pay attention to it, and to its mutinous message.

She shook her head, and visualized slamming the door shut on that part of her brain that harbored dangerous, elaborate thoughts of a treacherous nature. There was no time to get into this. As Tara continued the preparation with practiced ease, Willow made a decision to trust Tara, even if Tara hadn't trusted her enough to share. Once Buffy was back, everything would be fine again. They'd gotten into a depressive mood with the mourning, but it'd all end tonight.

She would see to it.

~ To Be Continued... ~


End file.
